A Tale of Dragons
by thecrazyfanficcer
Summary: *discontinued* It is years after the final war, years after Galbatorix's death. Now, it's a different story. A story of anger, romance, friendship, and new beginnings. The story of teenagers in Alagaësia.
1. Fight Between Brothers

It was an epic battle.

Hiding behind an ugly stone statue that was an unsightly lump protruding from the ground of Urû'baen, bright brown eyes wider than ever and taking everything in, Varden member Jarsha watched the scene unfolding before him.

Smack in the middle of the capital's unsightly building, ahead of the battling armies – Galbatorix's versus the Varden's – two warriors were fighting. Their armour glinting in the sunlight that was streaming down from the heavens, they dealt blow upon blow upon each other's swords. Weapons had dropped from nerveless fingers, the faint strains of magic were left floating in the air, and hundreds of eyes were riveted to the two fighters as, through the clashing one of them yelled a strangled cry.

The one who had called out had a blue sword, and the other, a red one. While the warrior with the blue sword appeared to be tiring slightly, he had no helmet on, revealing pointed hears and long, unruly brown hair. This gave a way a tidbit from his life before this battle – a link to the past, so to speak. Staring at the brave warrior, Jarsha – as did every other single human, Urgal, Ra'zac, elf, dragon, or dwarf on this end of Alagaësia – knew that this human was no ordinary human…

The other warrior's helmet-covered head, darker armour and the ruby embedded in the middle of his chestplate suggested that, while he and his opponent may have been of equal talent with the sword, this one was stronger, more skilled in the ways of magic. A dark aura emanated from his very being – a secretive, shut, reclusive aura, not open and rash like the other's.

While they fought, above them soared a draconic, aerial combat between two dragons. One, its scales a shining azure, was considerably larger than the other, who – on its claw – appeared to be thicker-legged and stronger than his blue adversary. Claw upon scale, tooth upon skin, fire upon wing, the two were evenly matched. Red for blue, ruby for sapphire, blood for water, their scales matched the fighters' swords. On and on their teeth cut each other's wings, again and again their spikes ground against each other, faster and faster their barbed tongues expelled flickering flames.

Suddenly, the fighter with the blood-red sword began to press it down upon the other's. Had the circumstances been toggled slightly, it would have been a wonderful battle to watch – clash of sword upon smash of sword, their two swordsmen at it like dancers on a stage, aware of nothing but the sound of their own sparring and the hatred etched on each other's faces. Now, though, it hardly seemed fair, with the blue-armed warrior beginning to tire as he was. The dragons, though, were evenly matched – blow for blow, flame for flame, they perfectly matched up, each as strong as the other.

One could sense the warrior with the red sword smiling evilly as he began to overbear the other, his sword pressing down so hard so that the other's arm began to tremble. Struggling against the blood-red sword that was threatening to knock his own blade out of his hands, the elven warrior glared.

"Even if you destroy me, you and Galbatorix will never reign over Alagaësia!" he shouted, forcing his sword yet harder. One could see his arm shaking, could almost feel the blood pumping in his veins as he struggled to survive. "We are good! We do not kill if need be not, we do not murder recklessly in frenzied bouts of rage as you and that mad king are prone to!"

"And just why should I do that?" The red-bladed warrior's voice was much deeper, much more mature-sounding than the other's furious shout. "Why should I listen to you – you, who did not listen to me when I asked _you_ to join our side?"

"You know it's not right!" Gritting his teeth, his opponent's face bulged in anger, rage, and… magic?

For indeed the legendary force of gramarye began to make its mark; the shining sapphire carved into the blue sword's hilt began to glow with an unearthly light. "Brisingr!" he muttered savagely, then looked up into the slit, soulless black eyes of one he had known so well… Had loved like a brother...

It pained him to do this, but he knew he had to… He knew that hurting his opponent like this was the only way to defeat him. Even as he acknowledged these thoughts, the young fighter twitched one pointed ear and ducked as the other's sword sent a fresh onslaught of pressure on his sword, which he felt was igniting. He felt it glowing as if the scales of his dragon had fallen to the earth as comets, glowing as if the sun in the sky had turned a beautiful celestial colour, glowing like the fire within, the inner flame that flickered away courageously for all he stood for… Glowing with all his heart and soul.

And it was like that he aimed a pressured blow to his enemy. "You know perfectly well that the path you have chosen in life is not the right one to have followed!"

"So what?" The red-bladed warrior glared, halting his maelstrom of sword sparring to glare the other in the eye. "As long as Thorn and I are safe, are strong, are _alive_, I don't even need Galbatorix." He laughed cruelly, and snapped his fingers; instantly, the glow on his rival's sword faded and it was once more nought more than a mere blue sword. "So why should I come to your side, Eragon?" Another cruel laugh as some mystic force sent the newly named Eragon tumbling. "Why should I come to your side, Eragon Shadeslayer, when the dark side can make me powerful, rich, renown…even famous?"

"Aye, infamous!" In a single bound, Eragon was back on his feet, a flicker of magic returning his fallen sword to his hands. "Why did you do this to us, Murtagh? Why did you do this to me, Murtagh…my brother?"

For the first time, the wielder of the red blade stammered, stuttered, not knowing what to say. "I… I… I do it because—"

But before he could go on, there was a roaring, immature, yet somehow inhuman battlecry from Eragon, followed by a furious summoning. "COME, SAPHIRA!"

The blue dragon effortlessly broke away from her battle with her blood-coloured enemy, lashing him away with her tail. With another inhuman battlecry, Eragon jumped onto her back. Murtagh began to mutter a spell under his breath, but it was too late.

With a roar that could only be the essences of a Rider and their dragon melded together, Eragon Shadeslayer attacked Murtagh, son of Morzan, with an almighty blow from his blue sword.

"Jarsha!"

The teenager looked up.


	2. Daydreamer, Awaken

"Stop daydreaming!"

She was angry. She was furious, even. It didn't take a lot to know something like that; her chest was heaving, her brown hair was matted with sweat, and there was a dangerous look in her wide, furious eyes. It didn't take a lot to know something like that – and Jarsha was one of the people who knew her best.

"I'm sorry, Mother," he said guiltily, instantly relenting. He hadn't meant to drift off, but there was something about that battle – that battle that had taken place four years ago, that final battle between Murtagh and Eragon that he had witnessed at the mere age of ten – that always intrigued him, whether he was daydreaming about it or not. At that point, it was had been an awesome sight to behold, with each Rider stronger than ever before, and the young Jarsha had been incredibly shell-shocked at its end.

But now it was time for a history lesson.

"Sorry?" Myrna shook her head, avoiding her son's eye. "Sorry? That's what you always say, Jarsha – and yet somehow, you always end up drifting away during your lessons."

"I…" Averting her gaze, he etched a circle into the Surdan grass beneath their feet, turning toward the local teacher – a traveller from the forest city Osilon named Mirofr – who his mother had paid good money to instruct him in the ways of the land's history. "I'm sorry, Master Mirofr."

"Aye, and you expect me to believe it." The elf's mild chuckle was thinly veiled as he surveyed his young charge through amber eyes partly hidden by a hunk of strangely short yet shaggy silver hair. "Go on, young one. Tell kind Myrna here –" predictably enough, he tossed her a wink – "that it won't happen again during your history lesson."

"I can't," Jarsha said, still not looking at them. "I– I don't think about it. It happens… I'm too…whatever I am." And he hung his head in shame.

"Perhaps you could at least try?"

Jarsha looked up at Myrna's hand, that warm touch that was now perched upon his shoulder. He smiled at her, nodded with a determined smile, and turned back to Mirofr.

"All right. I can see that merely teaching you about this beautiful land's past will not work. Am I right, Jarsha?"

He nodded. "I drift off when you do that… I remember a lot from when I was ten, and that's not something I'd forget easily." He grinned. "It's so exciting, I forget about my lessons."

Mirofr nodded understandingly. "In that case, allow me to offer you some advice." He paused. "Some counsel, more like."

"How?" Jarsha queried eagerly, almost childishly. He had a habit of quickly regaining his optimism, that young one did. "What do I have to do?"

"Well, start by telling me everything you remember about Alagaësia's past." Mirofr shrewdly observed the brown-haired teenager not-so-quietly sitting before him. "Long before the this Eragon was born. Perhaps even before the first Eragon, if you can remember enough."

"Well – a long time ago, three hundred years after the formation of the peacekeeping group that was known as the Dragon Riders, humans came to Alagaësia," he recited, almost exactly as Mirofr had taught him a few days ago.

The elf began to speak, but a wave from Myrna interrupted him. "Excuse me, Master, but Jarsha has already learned this."

The elf nodded sagely. "Yes, Myrna, but look at it this way." He cleared his throat and looked up, deep into her pudding-coloured eyes. (I know, weird comparison for an Inheritance story…) "Perhaps, by reviewing things he knows already, it will help him concentrate."

Myrna nodded, fell silent, and remained intent on the elf as he continued with Jarsha.

"Do you know what happened afterward?" Mirofr inquired.

"Er… Er… Aye, now I remember." The foggy expression on Jarsha's face brightened. "There were twenty human warriors, and they settled here, in Surda. They traded with the dwarves."

Mirofr nodded again. "And then?" he asked softly.

"Erm… Then I forget what happened." Jarsha frowned, his elbows on his knees. "Something about King Palencar."

"In that case, tell me about the Riders," a gleam sprang into Mirofr's eye, "tell me what you remember about the Dragon Riders, Jarsha."

At this, the young one brightened once more. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Myrna leaving – probably returning to their peaceful little hut nearby to cook the midday meal. Focusing his attention back on his mentor, he delved into another recital excitedly.

"Well, the elves arrived on Alagaësia from some place named Alalëa."

"The home of the elves," Mirofr whispered, the gleam brighter than ever in his eye. "Alalëa… The land I shall someday see with my own eyes."

Jarsha, a quizzical expression on his face, merely waited. When the silver-haired being gestured for him to go on, he proceeded quickly. "The elves and the dragons didn't get along in the very beginning; there was a war between the two races. It's called… Er…" He paused, trying to remember what it was Mirofr had confided in him a few days ago. He hated those words of the Ancient Language –they were so long and hard to pronounce.

"I remember now!" exclaimed Jarsha, and his mentor nodded.

"It's called 'Du Fyrn Skulblaka' – The Dragon War." He stopped his small, informative speech to fidget and ponder. "Eventually, to end the war, they worked together to create the Dragon Riders. The dragons became more intelligent and less wild. They're able to think and communicate freely with their Riders. The elves gained an infinite lifespan – the elves are immortal unless they are killed from battle wounds or are poisoned. They can also combine their strengths together and work stronger gramarye – their magic. They became stronger, faster, and more agile. In fact, the elves are much stronger than us." He paused, and furiously shook his brown locks. "I don't like them all, though, for some reason or other."

"A person is entitled to their own opinions, Jarsha." Mirofr's voice was barely a whisper on the air – probably because he was annoyed with his young charge. Jarsha had just insulted the elves and, weirdly enough, he hadn't even realized it. "Perhaps, then, what they say about your lack of talent in the battlefield is true." He raised an eyebrow. "Is it not?"

"Aye, I know… I know that magic and weaponry is important, but I prefer thinking up stories, writing poems, brining joy to my friends. I always fancied being a bard when I'm older. I think it would suit me well." Jarsha didn't look guilty, and thus Mirofr could only feel anger for him at the moment. "But that's just me," the boy finished meekly, looking down, trying to avert the gaze of his master.

Mirofr sighed and buried his face in his hands. True, he was usually good-natured, but Jarsha had that streak of…something…something that he could not name…which, simply put, annoyed him to no end every so often.

"We'll go back to studying the Ancient Language," he said, shoving his unhappy thoughts back into his subconscious. "I trust you have studied, as I asked you to."

Jarsha nodded. "Yes, Master."


	3. When You've Had a Bad Day

"Those elves annoy me to no end."

Jarsha ground his teeth angrily as he stared at his friend Milda. "Before I know it, Mirofr's going to want me to call him Ebrithil or something of the sort. I'm a member of the Varden – how much training to I need?"

"I wouldn't say the same," the chatty Milda replied, seeming less talkative than she normally was. Brushing thick black bangs out of her eyes, she fell quiet, apparently thinking. "True, you're not the bravest person I've ever met, Jar, but you know the difference between right and wrong."

"Maybe…" Staring deep into Milda's swamp-like gray eyes, Jarsha bit his lip. Turning away from her, he heaved a sigh. "Maybe… But I really doubt it. You have to be lucky to be a Dragon Rider." This time, a glare. "And don't call me that."

"All right, all right." Milda rolled her eyes and went on in a more consoling tone as she placed one hand on her friend's shoulder. "I'll stop. But seriously, Jarsha, don't think so much of me. I'm a year older than you, and the only reason Iganì chose me as her Rider is pure luck."

"I don't get it."

Milda tossed her head to the side and grinned; Jarsha turned around, still confused. "Well, look at it this way. After Saphira and green dragon mated, they had about three hatchlings each year. Do you follow?"

Jarsha nodded, smiling in spite of himself. "Right now, ther're more than enough."

"Aye." Milda nodded and tossed a hand through her dark, bushy mop. "So, look at it logically – when Saphira first chose Eragon as her Rider, he was made the first _good _Dragon Rider since the days of old, before Galbatorix did… Well, you know what his did." Shuddering, Milda plunged on. "With more than enough other dragons besides Iganì born since Eragon did his thing with Murtagh, it wasn't too hard, I should think." Grinning ever more, Milda tipped her head to the side and gave him a large wink. "And besides, my personality fascinates everyone I meet."

Jarsha raised an eyebrow. "Yes," he said sarcastically, then cracked up. "By what standards set by mankind am I supposed to believe that?"

Milda shrugged and muttered something that sounded like distinctly like 'Ah well, but some people would.'

"Anyway, everyone in the Varden and in Surda gets free training anyway, so what's the difference?"

Ah, that Milda. She was so – er – Milda-ish. Her mindset indicated that she believed the Varden thought more highly of her than they did, bur Jarsha often wondered if it were true. This was Milda, after all. Always chatty, never normal, and through some estranged twist of luck or fate – one or the other, since he had seen his best friend as the heroic type – a Dragon Rider.

"There's more to it than that," he countered, "In a few months, when you and the others set off to Du Weldenvarden, your training will be more interesting than mine." He paused to make a face. "What am I saying? I don't even _like _the training." Being optimistic Jarsha that he was, however, he quickly brightened. "Besides, Dragon Riders get to fly."

By now, Milda had a quizzical expression on her face. "That's it? You just want to fly?" She grinned for the umpteenth time in her life. "All right, then, Jarsha, prepare yourself. You and I shall go on a little ride. Trust me, you poor former Varden messenger, we're going to fly."

-------------------------------------------

There they were, that beautiful afternoon, riding on Milda's dragon, Iganì. Iganì, whose glittering scales were a deep shade of powerful violet, was rather small for her five months, yet quick-witted and short-tempered. That's not to say she wasn't without the wisdom of most young dragons, though Milda could usually sense it through their mental link with feelings rather than words. Iganì would have made a strange fighter in war – her battling skills were horrible, which probably explained why she and Milda joined essences so often. Fifteen-year old Milda knew, of course, that even if the two of them ever were in a war, they would be somewhat trivial, sharing a mere bit of the limelight. There existed much cooler and more powerful Riders – namely, Eragon Shadeslayer and his reclusive brother, Murtagh. And, of course, the rider of the unnamed dragon, Roran Garrowsson.

_Your friend likes this, does he?_ Iganì commented wryly, and Milda groaned playfully. _I can tell, _the purple dragon went on confidently, _he thinks he's not very brave but he's trying to cast that aside as he tries to enjoy himself. _

_And why is that? _Milda queried; like any Dragon Rider, she communicated with her dragon by thought. _I mean, I know he's like that, but I find it offensive._

Iganì felt a mildly happy sensation in the depth of her mind at her friend's quick comeback (it showed her growing intelligence), but her conscious self didn't realize this. Rather, Iganì, being one of a short fuse, replied the way one would expect. _Don't contradict me,_ she snapped, then felt suddenly guilty. Regaining herself, she continued: _I know what we're talking about, Milda, and I can see that Jarsha has no confidence himself as a hero whatsoever. Just look at the way he's sitting on my back!_

It was true, too. There was Jarsha, slumped upon Iganì's saddle behind her, eyes shut tight, seizing the tough brown leather so hard that his knuckles were white. He looked so… so scared, so forlorn. But, still, you could tell that he was trying to enjoy it – his mouth was opening and closing wordlessly.

"Jarsha!" Milda called, ignoring her dragon's mental admonishments. "Are you all right?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Jarsha said through gritted teeth, though without any hint of sarcasm. "I mean, right now I'm scared, but I figure it must be worse for you."

"Why?" asked Milda, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah, sure, this is one time you have to live through it. So, if you can survive, how bad can it be?" She paused, then grinned evilly and winked. "Don't worry; Iganì's not going to drop you."

Jarsha opened his eyes, moving them ever so slightly – along with his body -- so that fudge-brown flew into mire-gray. "Aye…" he whispered softly, shaking his head, "but I'm not going to become a Rider like you are." Now, it was clear that he had abandoned trying to enjoy himself.

"And why do you think that?" Milda demanded, raising herself up imperiously upon her dragon's back and crossing her arms defiantly. Gripping the saddle's many riggings with her legs, she faced him flat in the face. "Why do you think that?"

"Because… Because I'm not very brave?" Jarsha replied tentatively.

At that, Milda exploded.

"What do you mean, you're not very brave? Izzat the best y'can give me, eh, Jarsha? Y'think you're not very brave? Y'know how bad tha' makes ma feel?"

"What?" Jarsha meekly averted her gaze.

"Look at it this way. You've been ma best friend f'r like, forever, and then all of a sudden y'tell me y'can' be a Rider because you're not very brave? Come on, you…y'person, all this time you've been doin' stuff y'don't wanna do but do anyway? You're telling me that's not bravery?" A pause. "An' since when d'you wanna be a Rider, an'way?"

Milda, as you have probably noticed by now, used a lot of slang when she was angry. Jarsha hung his head and turned away from his best friend, whose gray eyes were glowing pewter stones.

_Of course he's brave. _Milda gnashed her teeth together angrily as she declared this to Iganì; Jarsha, ahead of her, seemed to be engulfed in fear yet, and she couldn't blame him after that little, er, explosion. _You don't understand,_ _Iganì. This is Jarsha, after all. He's just so…so honest, so childish, but he's a teenager at the same time. He's growing up – now it's hard for him to feel happy and excited about things. My point? Of course he's got courage; he just refuses to believe it._

_I still think he's. _Iganì huffily gave a barely-suppressed snort, as the said former messenger boy went on looking straight ahead. Then, apparently plagued with a great sense of guilt, she added more gently, _I don't mean to insult your friend, and I'm sorry if you think I did._

_Aye, that's what you say, but some dragons never learn, _Milda grumped, but Iganì could tell she didn't mean it. _Say, say, say, and never learn. Talking about it doesn't teach them anything. So much for all that wisdom._

"I'm still think I'm not very brave," Jarsha whispered out of the blue. His eyes were down, focusing on Iganì's brilliantly violet scales. "Right now, I'm scared."

"Of course you are!" Milda nearly slapped her head in exasperation. "You've done loads of courageous things in your life! You've survived several dangers and lived what's not the luckiest of lives!" She paused, a weird thought having just occurred to her. "You know, I've got to stop talking like this. They say Eragon gained his gift of – er – talking archaically before his dragon could even communicate with him."

Not knowing what to say, Jarsha lifted his head up and kept his eyes focused forward, toward where the rest of Alagaësia was like a picturesque, multicoloured map laid down beneath the dragon's underside. He knew he shouldn't have grabbed Iganì's scales the way he was, but he was easily impulsive, his mind given to wandering past the normal boundaries of thought. Now, though, he didn't reflect or even try and think up a new tale, as he normally did. Instead, Jarsha kept silent, and noted just how strange his friend had been acting – still grasping the violet scales below him in a tight grip. Usually Milda was a much more chatty and fascinating person – 'a chip off my block, though she needs to observe the world around her more,' as Angela the herbalist had once referred to her. 'Alagaësia is a marvellous place, after all.'

"Sometimes Iganì a makes no sense," Jarsha grunted as he mulled on these matters.

_Adolescents, _Iganì commented to no one in particular. _Sometimes _they _make no sense._


	4. Storyteller's Tale

The next day, Milda was as bright and perky as she always was, clearly sorry for the way she had acted the day before. Jarsha was pleased of this and he too apologized.

"Yes, it's funny." Milda grinned and tossed her head to the side. "I was angry with you for a really stupid reason, and now look where we are. I mean, life doesn't always make much sense… You know what I mean, Jarsha? I never thought it did."

_Aye, _Jarsha thought with a smile, _she's back to normal, all right. _"I'm just happy we made up," he said honestly. "That's the way I see things."

"Can't disagree with you there," replied Milda as she ran a hand equipped with a cloth down the sleeping Iganí's violet scales; she was busy in the act of rubbing her down with the scrap of fabric after their long flight the day before. "So this is the way life is. One day we're mad at each other – for what reason, though, mind you? – and the next day it's as if nothing happened between us. See, that's why life in Alagaësia is so… strange."

"I wonder what Alalëa was like?" Jarsha mused thoughtfully; to the outsider, it would appear that he hadn't really heard her. He had, but he had just habituated himself to Milda through the ages. She talked too much, and this time – as always – his mind had wandered to a more interesting subject. Running a hand through his hair, he went on. "When I mentioned it yesterday when I was with Mirofr, I could tell he wanted to really go there."

"Well, it was the elves' home," said Milda reasonably. "Look at it this way – don't you want to see the place where humans lived before they came to Alagaësia? I know I would, for sure."

"Well, it would be interesting." Jarsha nodded and, unexpectedly, gave a step backward. Milda was surprised, stunned even, but left him to his thing. Jarsha had a reputation of doing strange things occasionally when he was caught up with his thoughts. "I'd actually like it a lot, but I really doubt it would happen." Cocking his head to the side, he gave her a sly grin, then came forward as abruptly as he had backed up.

Milda shrugged, turning back to her dragon. Iganì was still sleeping peacefully, her thick tale moving up and down slightly; she was lost in her happy dream. Just the sort of thing you'd expect a five-month old dragon with more wisdom than she let on to do. "You never know," Milda said, giving the purple scales one last, thoughtful, tactful swipe. Stepping back to admire her handiwork, she continued with the speech. "I'm a Dragon Rider, remember? We're entitled to more privileges than the average Varden member, you know." Her grin now stretching from ear to ear, she pushed him teasingly. "Huh? What do you have t'say about that, eh, Jarsha? What's so great about you, huh?"

Jarsha grinned back and pushed her away. "Yeah, but how many people have actually met the great Eragon himself, eh? How many people have actually delivered messages to him?"

"Aw, you only delivered two of 'em," Milda said roguishly, applying the force in her body to push him away. "You said he wasn't as awesome as you thought he would be."

"Well, that _was_ more thanfive years ago," Jarsha pointed out.

Regardless Milda plighed onward, giving him another friendly push. "So, my dear friend/former messenger boy, it would be a lot better to be a Rider yourself than know one and have met another, don't you think?"

Jarsha sprinted away lightly so that her onslaught of pushing would (hopefully) halt. "Ah. Yes. I think Eragon's decent enough, though." He paused, the grin vanishing from his face. "I think he was just probably hurried and…er…not expecting a messenger boy to randomly appear and deliver messages."

"I heard Myrna talking to Mirofr yesterday. They were discussing if they should make you a messenger boy again."

Jarsha turned back to Milda again. She wasn't smiling; instead, she looked _serious. That explains why she isn't as chatty as before. "_How, though?" he asked with a shrug, a drifting look in his eye. "If they wanted to be the Varden's messenger again, they would have to ask Lady Nasuada."

Milda raised one eyebrow, pondering. "Well… Well, you know, Jarsha, maybe they have. It could be like this… Suppose they've been considering this for ages, and now they're having second thoughts about it. Suppose they don't think you'll want to do it all over again. Maybe they'll ask you for your opinion." Her eyes squinched shut, she swivelled toward him.

_How does she do that? _Jarsha wondered, suddenly aware of his heart, which was racing like a charging dragon in his chest – though he didn't know why. "Or maybe I'm mistaken. It's possible, you know – as long as you're still young, Myrna can choose to if she wants."

"That'd make a great story," Jarsha mulled, pulling up the seemingly-oblivious-to-her-yet-listening-to-every-word act again. "A messenger who travels to foreign lands and meets a Dragon Rider along the way. Hm."

"Just like you might be, if luck shines upon us." Milda winked. "Though, I must say, it's not necessary. You could just ask me if you wanted to travel with a Rider."

Jarsha shot another grin at his friend. He knew it wasn't possible, but Milda had just given him an idea for a great story.

Little did he know just how wrong he was.

The next afternoon…

"Is that all you've got ta tell us, Sir?" Merrick asked.

The tall storyteller patted the five year-old's wavy honey-coloured locks. "What makes you think that, Merrick?"

"I wanna hear more about your story!" he replied excitedly, jumping up and down.

"Aye! So do we!" chimed in several other young ones, happily leaping around and succeeding in trampling the sun-drenched grass.

This youthful population of Surda had, at that moment, one desire: to listen to the great storyteller Jarsha's new tale. Every day, the 'big kid' would ascend the stool that had been stationed on the sun-drenched Surdan plains to tell his young friends a story. To them, he was a powerful king, his stool a sacred throne. It was a different one each time, usually, and a few hours ago Jarsha had been quite excited before he'd spun this one.

"Yesterday," he had begun, when all the little ones were assembled quietly before him, "my friend Milda gave me an idea for a new story. Do any of you know her?"

There had been some nodding in assent. Milda loved the young ones – 'Someday I'd love to adopt a whole lot, but Dragon Riders don't have much time to take care of them, y'know?' – and frequently took them on adventures. These little 'quests' were usually short, a mere half hour, as the children tended to become bored after a short while. Usually they travelled about a kilometre west of the boundaries of Surda. So, naturally enough, Jarsha hadn't been surprised when he had heard some suppressed yells of recognition.

"Well, the idea she gave me – and by accident, mind you – is one of the best ones I've ever decided to use for a story." Jarsha had closed his eyes, talking without looking at the eager listeners. "It's about a messenger, this story. A messenger who, to deliver mail, is sent away with a group of Dragon Riders to the elven city of Ellesméra and eventually becomes a Rider herself." Still not looking at them, he had swung his legs from his lofty wooden perch. "And the story I'm about to tell you today is about her and her adventures."

Then he had looked up once more, pudding-coloured eyes open, large, and glowing. He had a slight, evil smile curling the tip of his lip, and had he not been Jarsha – a boy of few faces, though not one of the children assembled before him that day could say as much – this would never have come to be. "And that is the story you shall hear today."

True to his word, it was three hours later and, according to Jarsha, the first chapter of the story had been told. "But only the first chapter," he had said, eyes deep and pulsing, when the question had been popped on him. "There are many more chapters to come – I'd say at least fifteen."

Now, Merrick knew that this was his favourite story to date, as he so told his friends when the group broke up.


	5. Mainstream Happiness

"I don't think I liked any of Sir's stories as much!" he squealed eagerly to nine year-old Nanette and four year-old Alden. "My favourite!"

"Only a chapter," said Alden, looking dazed. "Is it gonna be really, really long, Nanette?"

The eldest nodded wisely. "Of course," she said sagaciously. "Jarsha is the best storyteller I've ever heard. And, Merrick, you know, he _does_ have a name."

"Plus there were all sorts of cool things that Sir talked about!" Merrick jumped around happily, apparently not having heard her. "Like a dragon, and one of those ex…" He struggled with the heard word. "Extint…"

"Extinct," Nanette corrected gently.

"And one of those extinct Ra'zac! Yay!" After his session of bouncing around was over, he looked them both deep in the eye. "An' I think it'll be longer than fifteen days!"

"I don't wanna get bored," said Alden, watching, entranced by Merrick's springy antics as they quickly resumed. "I hope it's fun! And interesting!"

"It should be." Nanette grinned, bent down, and gathered her two friends in her arms. "Listen, guys, could you stop jumping around? Please? For me?"

Merrick looked up at her, then slowly nodded. Alden, however, wanted to keep jumping; this he did, as Nanette slapped herself in the forehead and left him to his devices.

"What do you think's gonna happen, Nan?" Merrick asked as Alden's jumping faded after about a minute. "What do you think Sir's gonna tell us tomorrow?"

Nanette tossed him a smile, dropped to her knees, grabbed Alden, and began to tickle him. It was something she had often done to Merrick when he had been younger. "I don't know," she said, retaining a calm face as Alden's shrieks of laughter resonated like vibrations in a cave. "I think Jarsha's inventing it as he goes on."

"Y'could be right," Merrick mused thoughtfully – he was pretty philosophic for a five year-old. "But me, I don't think so."

"Why? Whaddaya think's gonna happen?" Alden's laughter petered out; Nanette, now absorbed in the conversation, had merely let her fingers trail over his ribcage.

"I think Romena's gonna become a Dragon Rider." Merrick gave an evil smile, his mist-blue eyes lighting up as he excitedly plunged onward. "But only at the end. I think that's what Sir's gonna decide."

"Aye, it seems like the sort of thing Jarsha would do." Aiming her eyes skyward, Nanette imagined the calm storyteller talking with his best friend, Milda, even as she spoke. "Or maybe something like that'll happen to him." She shrugged. "I have this weird feeling, at least."

"Anythin's possible," noted Alden, squirming impatiently on the ground. He was trying to quote the aforementioned Rider's words of a few days past; 'That's pure Milda for you,' as Jarsha would easily have said. 'She's unpredictable and yet predictable, that one.'

"I think Sir'll write books some day!" Merrick said excitedly, feeling like a little wriggling would be a great thing to do right now. (Merely sitting down would suffice for now, however.) "Then he'll be famous!"

Nanette, however, was strangely silent. Alden made an anguished sound, ignoring Merrick, and went over to her. "Why are you so qui't, Nan?" he asked, a tear dripping from his eye. "Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm fine," Nanette said, and smiled at the little guy. "I'm just thinking, that's all."

"About what?" Merrick wanted to know.

Nanette merely shrugged, a smile playing about her lips. "Well, I was thinking about a long time ago. I was born in Teirm, right?"

The little ones nodded furiously.

"But there're other cities and villages too. Like, for example, Rider Eragon talked about the village near his home, Carvahall, once."

More eager nodding.

"He said that, when Carvahall still existed, the people who lived around it didn't get a very advanced education. Mostly they learned how to farm from their parents." She wrinkled her snub, freckled nose and went on. "So, I was thinking; if I'd been born around Carvahall, and if Eragon hadn't found that dragon's egg, I might not even know how to write."

"You mean if you want to write books?" Alden looked sleepy; he was fading in and out of unconsciousness even as he spoke.

"No, but it's a good thing to learn. I could read books, more like."

But Alden didn't hear her. The little guy was already asleep.

---------------------

"So, you really think this is the best thing you ever told?"

Jarsha nodded eagerly at Milda, his eyes lighting up. He was, in essence, the childish picture of boyishness that he always was – gone were, for the moment, those complex matters of adolescence. Now, he looked the kid he was, and always would be. "Aye, I think so. I even heard Merrick say it's my best story!"

The two best friends were sitting calmly on the floor in Milda's house, a small structure made out of wood and decorated with homey, pleasant sculptures made out of dry Surdan vegetation. Her father, Tamir, liked to go foraging for this foliage necessaries, and her mother, Edlyn, crafted them to sell to the thriving Surdan merchants who travelled all over Alagaësia.

"I can see why, too. You know, Jarsha, maybe next time I should come. To listen to my best friend, you know. I mean, it'd be a great experience – educationally and in everything else." She laughed. "But, of course, I'm gonna have enough education as it is, what with the Rider training and all."

"Where are you going, anyway?" queried Jarsha. "For your training, I mean. Ellesméra?"

"I don't think so," said Milda brightly. "Maybe some other elven city, like Osilon or Ceris. Actually, I think most of the Riders went to train in Ellesméra before the Fall, but by now it must be crowded."

"If you ask me, Mil," Jarsha replied, raising an eyebrow, "there were much more than sixteen Riders at a time. So, as you can see, Ellesméra would be a lot less than 'crowded,' to use your word, right now." He paused to look dreamily up at the sky. "Still, though…"

_There he goes with one of those – what are they called? – mood swings again,_ Milda thought, amused, a slight smile on her lips."I wouldn't want to, anyway," she mulled, also dreamily. She had a hazy, foggy look in her eye; it was obvious that she – in the same way Jarsha did – was imagining. "Aye, true, many of the Dragon Riders did go to train there. But you know me, eh; sure, even Eragon himself went there, and so it's not novel." She grinned and moved her finger across the hard-packed earthen floor of her small abode. "It's not original. Y'know what I'm talking about, Jarsha."

Jarsha didn't know what to say in response to that. "Well..." he said after some hesitation, I'd still want to go with you, anywhere they take you." He paused, then looked down at the floor. "Even though I'm not brave enough."

"This again?" Milda sighed and turned away from him, aiming her gaze at the ceiling above them. She shook her head, suddenly realizing the brightness of the situation. "Well, I guess, the good thing," she began, perking him up and staring him deep in the eyes, "is that you'll never be get too cocky or too arrogant for anything."

They both burst out laughing, laughter which lasted a few seconds at best. "Do you really think so?" inquired Jarsha when the hilarity session had finished. "Maybe, suppose something really unexpected happens to me – then maybe I'd get cocky."

More laughter. Eventually, once both Jarsha and Milda had resumed conscious control of their bodies, he shook his hair and hesitated before speaking. "But… But when you go to Ellesméra or wherever they send you to, I want to go with you." He fidgeted, looking down at the woven reed carpet under his body. "Would that be all right?"

"Why wouldn't it be?" asked Milda, though she couldn't help but feel a drop of sweat course behind her reddening left ear. "Shade's blood, Jarsha – we're best friends, you know."

"Yes…" Jarsha was looking at the floor again, troubled.

His cheeks, Milda noted, seemed faintly pink. _Then again, maybe it's just me. Aye?_

"It's not that," he said, still averting the keen gaze of those deep gray eyes. "It's because… Well, you know, how many people were allowed to accompany the Dragon Riders for their training? I'm not a Rider, nor an elf."

Milda could sense that – predictably enough, as Iganì would have observed – he had an ulterior motive for asking the question. But, feeling uncomfortable enough, she decided to fake naïveté. "If they decide to let you become a messenger again, maybe. But if not – because I doubt it you know – then there are other ways." She looked quickly around herself, as if making sure that someone wasn't listening, then leaned herself against his ear and whispered, "we could sneak you in."

Jarsha's mouth dropped open.


	6. Inside Information

Milda started laughing. "Do you want to?"

Jarsha, still astonished, mouthed a few words: 'I don't understand.'

"Well, look at it this way." Milda uttered her catchphrase, tossing her head with yet another mischievous grin. "I'm a Dragon Rider. Understand?"

He nodded, wondering.

"And so I'm probably going to go to an eleven city sooner or later, for training. When I take off with Iganì, you could come along with us. Provided, of course, that you'd be hidden, no one would know that you were with us. You could hide yourself in a bag or something of the sort just before they left, and then when everyone is counselling me and giving me a pep talk, you can slip somewhere unnoticed that's hopefully more comfortable. Then you could wait until we actually set off, but making sure to hide yourself all the while."

Realization dawning on his face, Jarsha still looked somewhat pained. "But… But that wouldn't be right," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

"Aye, it would, but how else are we supposed to do it?" Shaking her black hair over her eyes so that they shone like pools of silver behind the web of dark bangs, she let her grin disappear and a secretive smile, concealing many hidden truths, appeared in its place. "You know, Jarsha, if this is what you really want to do this, there are ways to do this without feeling too guilty. It's only right." Finishing her speech matter-of-factly, Milda's large eyes drove deeply into his; he had the impression she was boring through his very soul.

"Er, it's not right," Jarsha corrected, blinking in rapid-fire succession. His demeanour immediately changed; he switched tactics. "How is doing something that the _good_ people who take care of us don't want us to do good?" he demanded, putting an emphasis on the word as he pushed his face into Milda's. Indeed, he felt a strange connection to her, a strange semblance to her. _So this is what it's like to do things without thinking_, he thought as he narrowed his eyes to slits and glared at her. Quite a change from his reaction of a few seconds ago. "And, for your information, Mil, I didn't ask for this. It was your idea."

"Hey, I'm not worried." Sidestepping away so that she was free from him, she wiggled one of her slightly pointed ears. It was something she'd always been able to do, even before Iganì's egg had hatched for her all those months ago, though it looked nicer with her newer pointies. "Also, Jarsha – sure, you didn't say it, but then again you're dreamerboy extraordinaire when you want to be. It was written all over your face."

Jarsha glowered.

Milda bounded further backwards, that small, secretive smile still imprinted on her features. "Besides," she said with a nonchalant shrug of the shoulders, "who knows? You might become a Rider."

A sarcastic look – half infuriated glare, half incredulous expression.

"Excuse me," declared Milda, and coughed politely. Looking up at Jarsha with an adorable grin, she plunged forward. "What I'll say instead is – you're going after my own heart. Now isn't that sweet?" Tapping her chest with one hand, she winked again and patted him on the shoulder with the other. "Look at it this way. If you're going to have frequent mood swings–"

He cut her off with a wave of his hand. "I do?"

"That was fast," replied Milda appreciatively in answer. "First hesitant, then angry, then with low self-esteem again. If you're going to have frequent mood changes, Jarsha, and one of them just involves you not thinking like I'm sure you normally do or acting like me in a way that's not so remote…" She trailed off, eyes closed, and resumed tapping her chest. "Then yes, Jar, you are one after my own heart."

Experiencing another mood swing – this time from raptly listening to her calling him that annoying nickname – Jarsha grinned and chuckled, wondering what on Alagaësia could be possibly better than listening to trifle nothings pour out of his best friend's mouth. And quite hilarious she was, too.

------------------------------------------

"Morning," greeted Myrna as Jerrett appeared in the doorway of his bedroom.

"Morning," Jerrett greeted back, planting a kiss on his wife's cheek. "Is Jarsha up yet?"

Myrna shook her head, pushing a strand of brown hair from her green eyes. "No, but you have a point. He's usually awake at this time of day."

"Daydreaming or something of the like," said Jerrett with a grin. When Myrna's emerald orbs cut through his marine ones like red-hot fire, he hastily went on. "I, er, hope he'll be awake soon. He should be, at any rate." Jerrett amended matters.

Myrna glanced toward the room she shared with her son at the other end of the small house. "I hope so," she muttered, a pearly tear shining on her cheek. Then, brusquely shaking herself, she turned back to Jerrett. "I have a feeling something's happened to him," she said softly, her eyes semi-closed.

"Like what?"

"Well, Jerrett, if you've noticed he's been with Milda all day. I think she's having some sort of strange effect on him."

Jerrett stared hard at Myrna. "It's adolescence. You're going crazy," he stated curtly, then turned on his heel and left.

---------------------------------------------

But Jarsha was perfectly bright and cheerful when he got up, his mind rooted deep on the workings of everyday life for once rather than the fantasy world that was his third life (after having fun and staying at home/studying with Mirofr, of course). Myrna, pleased of this arrangement, said so; a happy Jarsha replied that he'd been having a hard week and the difficulties of adolescence had finally begun to catch up with him.

"I told you so." Raising an eyebrow, Jerrett embraced the young one. "The perils of adolescence always hurt, son, but they're also the best times of your life, boy," he told his son with a wink. "When you're a teenager, it's when you begin your life of romance and love."

"Don't fill his head with that nonsense." Myrna scurried away from the pair, though her cheeks were a vehement pink as she began to fiddle with the intricate braiding of the spotless grass reed curtains.

"Well, it's already stared to happen," Jerrett declared, putting a hand around Jarsha's shoulders. As it should have." Turning back to his son, he smiled and went on in a more consoling tone, for the boy was – without any trace of doubt – blushing. "Hasn't it, Jarsha?"

Jarsha hesitated before nodding slowly.

"Aye. I thought so." Jerrett removed his hand from Jarsha shoulder and began to rise. "Just remember," he began as he began to head out the doorway of their humble abode, "Milda's probably fallen in love with you too."

Myrna left the flawless curtains to join her husband out the door. Jarsha was left staring at the two of them, his mouth open in shock and amazement.


	7. Day of Our Lives

_How did he know that? _Jarsha wondered seconds later as, free from his dazed stupor, he trooped outside and plopped onto the grass. _How is it even remotely possible that he knows that I like Milda more than a friend?_

"Because, you see, Jarsha, it is a thing many people know after careful hours of observation."

Jarsha did a double take. Right there, standing in front of him, was Mirofr.

"I— I—"

Quickly realizing he had been saying what he had been thinking, Jarsha blushed. Turning his eyes upward to the elf as he solemnly sat down upon the grass, he asked, "Is it that – for lack of a better word – obvious?"

Mirofr stated gravely, "Evident would have suited the purpose." He crossed his arms, setting his wrists into the folds of his silk garment. "No, but a mother knows." He paused thoughtfully. "And so do elves who are scores – nay, centuries – of years older than you are."

"What about Father?" Jarsha blurted out.

Mirofr shook his head, a twinkle in his eye. "No, indeed not. By chance, I happened to hear Myrna confiding on the subject in him."

"You were eavesdropping!" Jarsha accused, a nervous grin on his face; Mirofr merely gave him a cool glance.

"Anyway," began the elf, delicately fiddling with a fallen leaf that he plucked from the grass below them, "recently you expressed a strong desire to accompany Milda on her journey for her training in Ellesméra."

"I did?" replied Jarsha with a frown, trying to avoid the elf's gaze. He hadn't – that had been Milda, of course – but he couldn't help but wonder –- how did Mirofr know?

Mirofr cocked his head to the side and keenly observed the teenager. "You did," he encouraged, "for though you did not actually put voice to these feelings, I happened to catch a brief glance of your conversation yesterday."

"You were eavesdropping!" Jarsha repeated. He fell silent when Mirofr gave him a sharp look.

"No matter how it happens to be, I am sure that you are aware of this. No?" He blinked, wondering how Jarsha would act to the enigma. Mirofr knew, of course, that the boy hadn't said anything when Milda had proposed the idea to him, but there were other ways he knew. Mirofr was something of a psychologist in his own right, and he knew perfectly well that the excitement Jarsha had applied to tell his story the day before had been induced, of course, by those thoughts Milda had instilled within his mind earlier on. Yes, he had heard the story, too – indeed, he'd seen and listened to lots of things few humans even knew the existence of.

"I… I… I guess so," Jarsha finally admitted with some hesitation. Finally bringing his gaze up to Mirofr's dark orbs, he wrinkled his nose. "I still don't understand how you knew that, though."

"I have my ways," his teacher replied serenely, looking down at the leaf clutched in his spindly fingers. "Ways that I shall not impart with you for some while."

_Some while, _mulled Jarsha thoughtfully. _That means I'll find out eventually._

"But not yet," said Mirofr with a wise nod, cutting through Jarsha's thoughts as if he'd read the teenager's mind. "On a happier note, your mother was recently talking to me. We were discussing what is going to happen when Milda leaves for her training." He sighed deeply and pressed two fingers against his temple. "Eventually Myrna and I came to a decision; you are allowed to join Milda on the way to Ellesméra, provided you watch and pay attention to what is going on. It will count as part of your lessons; I will accompany you. However, no written work shall be necessary."

"Great!" said Jarsha happily. "When do we leave?"

"In two weeks." Mirofr posed his chin on his hands. "In the meanwhile, Milda will be tested for her competency in the ancient language, of which she has been taught by an educated woman named Nolen. She will teach you, in time, as well."

Learning the ancient language suited Jarsha. He didn't know what he'd like to do when he grew up; becoming a spellcaster of the Varden's Du Vrangr Gata sounded fairly interesting in its own right. That, of course, required knowledge of the ancient language.

--------------------------------

"Yay!" shouted Merrick a few days later.

Jarsha grinned at the little one, who was standing protectively beside Alden and Nanette with a large, club-like stick curled in one tiny hand. The young storyteller knew perfectly well what Merrick planned to do with it; he had told the crowd of story-listeners about his plight earlier on, shortly after the closing of the third instalment of his story about the Dragon Rider Romena. Merrick, just like Alden, apparently wanted to come along. Ellesméra, after all, was Ellesméra; a lot of the younger folk wanted to accompany Milda to the ancient elven capital.

Jarsha hopped off the stool and sprinted lightly toward the fateful trio as the regular crowd broke up, chattering excitedly. There stood Merrick, the stick clasped firmly in one little paw as, eyes shining, he scampered forward to meet his idol.

"Hello, sir!" Merrick called brightly as Jarsha came to kneel down beside him, ruffling his haphazard locks. Squealing with delight, Merrick turned his glowing eyes toward the sky. "Can I come too?"

Jarsha shook his head. "No. It's for big kids only."

"Y'mean like Nanette?" added Alden, gesturing. "She's big!"

"Actually…" Jarsha seemed to be thinking. "Nan, I heard something about you today."

"Yeah, look!" Nanette, who had turned ten the day earlier, pulled a large, sunbeam-coloured stone from the depths of the rucksack strapped across her back. Its orange splotches and yellow stripes made quite a contrast to her dark, Surdan skin. "Look at this, Jarsha! It's a dragon's egg!"

"A dragon's egg?" quested the teenager, his eyes widening. "Where'd you get it?"

"Where do you think?" said Nanette, and giggled childishly. Usually she was fairly mature and responsible for her ages, but – perhaps in the presence of one who was yet older than her, perhaps because she wanted to be mischievous, perhaps for some other reason – she was acting like one of her smaller friends. "They told us to walk before the egg, touching it to see if we were able of being a Dragon Rider, this morning. I did that, and when I did, it started to shake and tremble right before my eyes. Mirofr was there, and he told me to hang onto it. It's one of Saphira's eggs, you know."

"Can I see it?" Jarsha asked politely. Nanette presented it to him, and he ran a hand reflectively down its smooth surface. "You say Mirofr told you to keep it?"

She nodded silently, her responsible nature quickly regained.

"What did he say?"

"He said that the dragon will hatch at dawn the day after tomorrow," Nanette recited, accepting the egg as Jarsha handed it back to her and replacing it. "He told me to come to this spot after the egg hatches."

"I suppose he wanted to make his hatching dramatic." Jarsha grinned. "I guess that means you'll be coming with us?"

She shrugged modestly. "According to legend, Brom was ten when he started his training. I turned ten yesterday – I guess that means I'll be coming with you, aye."

"Nan! Nan!" Alden, who had been standing quietly with Merrick until this moment, now ran to his friend. "Are you sure we can't come, too?"

"No, I don't think so," said Nanette with a smile, stroking his hair. "Maybe someday."

Merrick, however, had lost his former enthusiasm and seemed to be already accepting the defeat. "Maybe," he agreed forlornly.

"I'm going to come, too," added Jarsha absently, dropping down onto the grass beside the younger girl and picking up Alden, planting the child on his lap. Not focusing, he undid the laces on the four year-old's shoes, and, with a vague smile, began to tickle the soles of his feet. Alden writhed and shrieked with happiness, and Jarsha grinned.

"Why?" asked Nanette, gesturing to Merrick so that he came to sit quietly beside her. She turned surprised eyes on him. "You're a Rider? I figure I would have known."

Jarsha lifted his shoulders slightly, tickling Alden's tiny feet harder so that he giggled uncontrollably, squirming in delight. "No, but four years ago I was a messenger boy for the Varden. I guess that means I'll probably have to ferry messages from Du Weldenvarden to them, but I can't say it won't be worth it."

Nanette tucked a strand of dark hair out of her face, inviting Merrick the expanse of her own lap. Merrick glanced at her crossed legs sullenly, then slowly clambered in. "You're unhappy, aren't you, little guy?" she crooned softly.

"I wanna go with you an' Sir," confessed Merrick, a sad look in his brown eyes as he stretched his diminutive size across her thighs.

Nanette sighed. "I know," she whispered, softly patting his cheek. Merrick, seeming to understand that there was nothing that could be done about it, sighed and gave a passing glance to Alden, who had fallen into slumber upon Jarsha's lap. With another dejected sigh, he spread himself on Nanette's lap and promptly began to doze.

"Shade's blood, that was fast," said Jarsha with a grin as the young one's breathing became regular; intently aware of Alden's small, fragile body, he deposited him safely onto the grass. Nanette followed suit, perching her fist on her chin. "I never saw him go to sleep so quickly after he was unhappy."

Nanette shrugged indecisively, undoing the straps of her rucksack to paw with the dragon's egg. "Merrick's pretty smart for a five year-old," she smiled.

"You know, Nan, I don't think there's been a Dragon Rider as young as you in quite a while." Jarsha stretched himself luxuriously on the grass, taking care not to wake the little ones; Nanette stayed in her position, head still perched upon her hand. "Leastways, the last one was Milton, from Teirm."

"He probably wasn't any more special than I am," replied Nanette, shrugging. "I mean, I don't think I'm that special."

"Aye, that's what you say." Jarsha lifted his head slightly to toss her a gigantic wink, feeling Milda-ish with the gesture.


	8. Lesson Somewhat Learned

"I can't get these symbols!"

Milda was losing patience. Nolen could see that. Then again, this was _Milda _she was teaching. The fifteen year-old had never really had much patience, or even eagerness, to learn the ancient language. Then again, you couldn't expect her to; Nolen was teaching her its glyphs at the same time, these being quite different from her usual runic alphabet.

"Here, I'll write something and you try and say them," the short, middle-aged woman invited encouragingly, crossing out what she had previously written and replacing it with the ancient language, human style. One had to be encouraging if one knew the ancient language, the dwarven language, the Urgal language and the human language and planned to teach it to young ones.

"All right, but I don't think I'll get it." Milda paused, then slapped herself on the forehead. "What am I thinking? Of course I'll get it – according to any Varden member you ask, you can do anything if you try hard enough. And of course that's right! I'm a Varden, so I've got to do that, you know! I've got to at least try and try and be better at this"

Reassured by her enthusiasm, Nolen smiled and slid over the thin sheaf of parchment. "All right, then. Read this."

Chewing her lip, Milda bent over the paper and read slowly. "Atra…theirra…kalfis…waíse…heill!" Milda paused after the reading, looking up at the intelligent Nolen. "Let their calves be healed?"

"You don't know enough words of the ancient language that I was able to make a, er, less odd sentence with." The brunette woman shrugged, then gestured to the sheaf of parchment. "Do you want me to teach you more?"

Milda nodded eagerly, saying, "Well, look at it this way. If I don't want to learn, how am I ever going to become a Rider? It wouldn't make sense – and that's all I need to say."

Nolen laughed as she bent over the paper with the stub of charcoal she'd been using clutched tight in her hand. "You were a Dragon Rider since Iganì first hatched for you." She chuckled, scrawling a few runes in a script, neat and flowing in spite of the weak stub of her writing tool. "At least, that's what I heard tell about."

"Well, you got it right," observed Milda diligently, pointing to the line of runes that were busy filling up the page under Nolen's practiced hand. "What do those say?"

"Patience, Milda." Nolen blew a strand of chestnut-and-blond out of her face as, with a few deft, skilful strokes, she finished scribbling. "You need patience, Mida, and CONSTANT VIGILENCE!"

The last statement came to an accented bark at the end; Milda, without even a crescendo to have warned her, backed up quickly on her palms and feet. With this crablike movement, she stared at her teacher with dazed gray eyes. "I don't get it," she noted instantly, "what's botherin' you? Why were y'yellin' at me? Y' seemed fine a few seconds ago, y'know, m'am." She rubbed a hand along her sweaty brow as she ploughed on with her speech. "Like, Miss, I didn' think ya would…er…erupt like ya did just now, y'see." She paused, fiddling with a strand of her black locks. "I'm not that incompetent, y'know, despite any o' th'weird feelin's y'may b'havin' 'bout me."

When Nolen spoke again, her voice was calm, controlled, doing anything but indicating her previous shout. "What's with the dialect?" she inquired as a slightly scared Milda – feeling strange and yet not very scared – crab-walked back to her side.

"I– I do that when I'm nervous," explained Milda with a chuckle that was just a tad tentative. "No one knows why I do that, but that's how it is." She paused, for once thinking about her words before she spoke. "And you? I don't understand what caused you to shout the way you did, ma'am."

"One must have patience and constant vigilance to teach, and one must have patience and constant vigilance to be taught. It's important that you're aware of that, Milda, and more importantly that you can keep in mind these two endearing qualities."

Milda didn't get it. "It still doesn't make much sense why you yelled," she said, trying to reason things out.

The ghost of a smile passed on Nolen's lips. "That, Milda, was merely to induce the symptoms of fear that it did in you."

"Definition?"

"It was a joke," said Nolen, her grin now stretching from ear to ear.

----------------------------

"What did you learn today, Mil?" Jarsha asked excitedly.

Milda glanced at her younger friend, a smile curling her features as his own face was basked in the glowing light of curious happiness. "Lots of stuff, Jar," – aw, it was so fun to annoy him. When he sent her a slightly pained look, she repaired the matter. "Lots of stuff, Jarsha," she answered in its place, running a hand through her mess of hair to straighten it. "Many, many words in the ancient language," she intoned, dropping her voice a few pitches for a theatrical, dramatic effect. "Many words that the likes of your meagre race would not understand."

Jarsha's grin became more pronounced. "Like what?"

Milda shook her hair so that it returned to its usual mop and began reeling off at a pace that was too fast for her fingers to count. "Garjzla, deloi, moi, jierda, thrysta, yawë, edoc'sil…"

Jarsha stood dumbstruck with awe, eyes flashing like two brown beacons in the midmorning light. "What do they mean?" he enquired, stopping in his tracks so that he could look her full in the face. "Tell me?"

Milda smiled, dropped down to the floor, and began to recite.


	9. Dragon Tale

A few days later, after the fifth chapter of Romena's tale, Jarsha stood up from the stool to survey his work. Today's instalment had left everyone, small children to older adults – indeed, it seemed that Merrick and co. had spread the word of his awe-inducing story so much that now everyone attended, no matter what age they were – in a kind of dead, shocked silence. For, indeed, Jarsha had brought Romena up to the point where her life was hanging by the ghost of a thread – before her accursed enemy, King Palancar, without her friends and in the presence of a man who was literally devoid of goodness. Or, at least, one who kept it well-hidden at all times of the day if he did.

Anyway, there was everyone, calmly and dignifiedly talking about the chapter he'd just recounted to them. In a corner, he saw Merrick, Alden, and Nanette. With an excited bound, Jarsha made his way toward them.

He waved as he approached, then Nanette grinned cheerily and reached for her rucksack, which was tied across her shoulder. "Guess what happened, Jarsha?" she asked with a mischievous grin.

"Her dragon hatched!" interrupted Merrick before he could answer. Beside him, Alden nodded furiously.

"Well, how did it happen?" Jarsha queried. A pause. "And how come I wasn't there?"

Nanette smiled, passing a hand down the dark skin of her left forearm as she dropped down to the ground. "Er… I think it was because you were studying at the time." Embarrassed, she reddened faintly. "Well, I guess you'd better sit down. This is a long story."

----------------------------------------

Nanette rose with a start before dawn. At first she was surprised by the shout of her younger sister, Tatiana, lying on the bed beside her. Then, quickly remembering why, she shook the seven year-old's shoulder.

"Calm down, Tati," she instructed as big blue eyes met calm dark ones. "I told you to wake me up – I didn't to tell you to wake up the rest of the house as well."

Tatiana only smiled mysteriously, giving a mischievous grin. "Well, you never said I couldn't," she said with a grin, then dropped down beside Nanette's bed to watch the proceedings. "I wanna watch your egg hatching" was the response to her sister's confused look.

Nanette shrugged and dropped down beside her, encircling her left hand tenderly around Tatiana's neck. As they intently watched the beautifully coloured egg perched on her dresser, she knew they would have to wait.

Tightening her hand's grip on the collar of Tati's nightrobe, she knew it would be a long wait.

--------------------------------------

Sure enough, a few hours came and passed yet, as if nothing had happened, Nanette and Tatiana were still sitting there. Nanette's hand was still draped across Tatiana's shoulder; the younger sister's blue eyes were bleary, accentuating the sleep-deprived darkness of the bags under her eyes. Nanette herself felt strange; she didn't feel tired, but uptight and nervous. Her jaw was set, her muscles had gradually tensed, her hands clenched in tight balls – _so this is what Rider Eragon must've felt before those wars started in Tronjheim and twice in the Burning Plains. Only this is much better – no one will be slain this time around._

And, when Nanette looked back on it later, it was indeed an estranged sentiment, considering that a dragon's hatching was supposed to be quite different. But if you asked her at that very moment how she felt, she would merely have said, "On edge."

So it came that, when the sun-coloured egg finally began to rattle furiously upon the dresser; Nanette's and Tatiana's eyes widened. Tati reached for the egg; gently, wordlessly, Nanette pulled her pale hand away from it. Frowning and focusing an intent gaze on the egg, which was now trembling, shaking, like a mini earthquake, she felt her breath come in quick gasps and her heart begin racing.

The egg rolled quickly across the dresser's lacquered surface from one end to the other, but miraculously never falling over the edge. It was as if the dragon concealed inside knew exactly what was going on outside his protective, harder-than-diamond shell.

_Maybe he has second sight… _But Nanette's thought was cut off as, all of a sudden, the egg halted, quivering, right in front of her. Her heart beating like the cadence of a thousand drums within her chest, Nanette raised a hand – barely realizing that it was trembling – toward the egg as she slowly, dazedly lifted herself up onto her feet.

But it smoothly moved away from her touch; with another sudden movement, a hole was punched open near the top of the egg. Out of this aperture a tiny snout protruded; a snout so tiny Nanette, who was watching the spectacle with bated breath, noted that it was smaller across then the width of Tatiana's hand. Likewise, it was followed by a head and a neck that was strangely long in proportion to the snout – though still quite tiny – and, in a rush of sticky, softly flapping wings, a dragon emerged.

Slick with the membrane that encased its whole body, the tiny reptile crawled out from between the slices of egg shell. Beginning to imperiously lick the glue-like substance that coated its sunbeam-coloured scales, it lifted its tail slightly; with this small movement, both Nanette and Tatiana were suddenly aware of the sunlight flaring outside the window. Yes, it was sunrise – or, at least, some small time after it – yet the beautiful ember rays were already streaking down and kissing the bronze spikes behind the dragon's ridged head with the light of dawn.

And, with a contented snort, the dragon slithered across the floor to Nanette and jumped into her lap. Nanette gave a start. She swore that she'd heard the words 'it seems I was a little late' in her head.

----------------------------------

"Doesn't he have a name?"

Nanette shook her head quickly to Jarsha's query. "No, I didn't give him one yet. As a matter of fact, I don't have any ideas." She paused, then lifted her left shoulder. "I don't know, but I think I'll go find Tati. She hasn't seen the dragon since yesterday morning." She grinned wryly. "So haven't I for that matter."

Watching as the young Surdan's body receded into the distance to find her sister, Jarsha was left to stare at her. "Bloodied Urgal, that was cryptic," he muttered to himself, since the little ones obviously couldn't be expected to know what a word like 'cryptic' meant.

Sure enough, it came: "What's cryptic mean, sir?"

Jarsha picked Merrick up as he fell to his knees, faithfully stroking Alden, who had followed to dozing during Nanette's recital. "It means, according to the online thesaurus arcane, enigmatic, hidden, unfathomable, evasive, and vague, among others." He paused, fingering Merrick's honey-dipped locks under his fingers. "Now where did that come from?" His face contorted in misunderstanding of that cryptic enigma. "Eh, what did I just say?"


	10. Inside the Gray Matter

A groan resonated from deep within.

"OK, Fanficcer, could you stop with these witticisms already?" came a pained voice as a small, black and gray dog stumped into the room. "I've had enough with this room where you imagine yourself being the twisted abyss of your mind." He cocked his head to the side, closed eyes narrowing. "Get it?"

"No," replied the black silhouette of a figure, lying down on the stone floor, a quill in its hand and intent on a long sheaf of notepad paper unrolled before it. Its luminous green eyes were focused on the sheet below, and it was nigh-impossible to tell if it was male or female; its plain black body was no more than a solid shadow and its voice could belong to either gender. "No, why would I?" TCF went on, not looking up from its busy scrawling.

"Yeah, Dark Rush, it's out of character." A Pikachu appeared from on top of a nearby wardrobe, a malicious grin on his face. Following him were a yellow Acara and an impatient Moogle, who was nervously playing with his bon-bon with one posterior paw. "Complaining is so not your thing."

"It's more than driving random fandom characters up the wall," the Acara continued with a sympathetic smile. Blowing an overbearing strand of yellow fur out of her face, she gave him a smile as she thrust her thumb toward the pocket monster before her. "Leave that to Pikasqueaks here."

It took him five seconds to realize that he'd been insulted. "Hey!"

But by that time, the Moogle had already begun speaking. By aid of his bat-like wings, the small, furry creature floated over to the Dark Rush. "Yeah, kupo, you know, it's not like you. Besides, kupo, you shouldn't complain. You're like a muse, kupo – even if you're not one – and that means, of course, kupo, that you're not supposed to normal complain about TCF's hilarious antics. Kupo!"

The Dark Rush flashed the three of them a grin. "'Kay, thanks, I will!" he said, and abruptly disappeared with a pop.

As soon as the fatedog was gone, Pikasqueaks jumped down from his perch, followed by Magic, the Moogle, and Clara, the Acara. Bending over Fanficcer's shoulder, he made the following observation:

"Hey, what happened to dear old Dark Rushie's description?"

TCF scowled and pushed the prying Pokémon away, for once looking up from its writing. Amazingly enough, the events continued to happen, rather than everyone being caught in a time/space continuum or anything of the sort, even though it had ceased writing. The story could go on as long as its mind (or writing materials) were properly focused. "Too lazy," it said gratingly, "and besides, I've found that I don't get as many reviews with behind-the-scenes chapters like this." It paused. "But don't tell the readers I said that."

Clara, her paw trembling, pointed to Fanficcer's story, where the quill was up and moving even as they spoke. "It already happened."

For seconds afterward, TCF's anguished cry rent the air, successfully twisting 'round the laws of science and literature in general.


	11. Conversations of Today

"I've got a name," said Tatiana excitedly.

Nanette glanced at her younger sister as she guided her by the hand to where the boys were waiting. "For my dragon?" she quested as a hill they crested(). "What?"

"Crimson Flame!" replied a gleeful Tati, clapping her hands. "Isn' that a wonderful, majestic name?"

"'Majestic'?" Nanette wrinkled her nose, releasing Tatiana's hand to give her a dumbstruck look. "'Crimson'? From where in Surda are you getting these words, Ti?"

Tatiana giggled, brining one hand over mouth as she almost burst into laughter. "From Jarsha, of course! He said them in his stories! And other ones, too, like 'slither' and 'soar' and 'shatter' and 'leap!'" Giggling yet harder, she grinned through the laughter and ran quickly away from her older sister, small feet pattering on the sun-drenched grass.

Nanette shrugged and followed.

--------------------------------------------

"Crimson Flame. I like that, but I don't know what it means."

Nanette stroked Merrick's thick mass of hair, as everyone was apt to do in the child's boisterous, happy-go-lucky presence. It was the way things were; no one held Alden as much, seeing as he was usually slumbering – like now – and Tatiana always giggled and ran away when someone tried to pick her up. Besides, she was older than Alden and Merrick, forced to get a rudimentary education from a human teacher named Dennell when she wasn't creatively running away from all who tried to catch her.

"Crimson means red. A flame is like the tongue of a fire – now do you understand?" she answered as she passed a hand through that mess of hair of his.

Merrick nodded, giggled and wiggled, signalling that he wanted to get down from his lofty perch. Nanette put him down, laughing. "But I thought all dragons have red fire…?"

"Aye, but I don't think much about what I learned in the past when I'm telling a story," Jarsha, who had remained silent for the larger part of this discourse, declared. "So, I'm technically not right when I'm telling Romena's tale – dragons are usually able to breathe fire after around six months, but I had Ethgrio first do it after three months. And, not to mention, Rider Eragon's Saphira breathes blue and yellow fire; her scales are blue. So, technically, being a white-beige dragon, Ethgrio's fire would have to be pale, maybe hued with a twisting column of marble-white flare."

It was a long and length explanation, but nonetheless a useful one. After all, what Jarsha said was true; in spite of that, though, there was a clever gleam in his eye. Nanette cocked her head to the side, watching – she knew that he wanted to use the phrase marble-white flare in his story. It was too obvious. Still undecided about what to name her dragon, she inquired the youthful storyteller about it.

"I think you should go with Crimson Flame," Jarsha replied, a grin contorting his features into a mask of happiness. "It has a nice ring to it." He paused, a flame-like glint flickering in those deep brown pools of his. "Maybe Milda would have an idea."

"What 'appened to Mil, anyway?" Conveniently and with perfect timing, Alden woke up. His eyes were bright, the movement was fluid, and nothing in or about his body gave away the fact that he'd been asleep a mere three seconds past. Indeed, if he had timed himself to rise at that exact time, the movement couldn't have been better. "I 'aven't seen her in a while."

Jarsha started to reply, but was cut off by the arrival of an all-too-familiar someone.

And no, it wasn't Milda.


	12. You Will Get a Big Surprise

"Hello!" she greeted brightly.

"Angela." Jarsha rose from the ground and extended a hand toward the herbalist. "It's been some time since I've last seen you."

Angela looked at the proffered palm, a bemused expression on her face. Shaking her voluminous hair from her skin, she chuckled and tapped the side of her nose. "No need to do that, Jarsha – we're old acquaintances." Her tapping became more pronounced as she rushed on with what she had come to tell them. "On a brighter note, I think you lot should accompany me. I heard tell that an elf – some friend of Mirofr's, I hear – has come from Du Weldenvarden for some reason or other."

As she began to stride her way past the sun-drenched Surdan plain, an amazed Nanette called back after her, "You always know when things are going to happen, don't you?"

"I can assure you, I have my sources," Angela said with a laugh as she waited for the others to catch up with her. "And, nay – this is not the only thing that is happening around here. I can feel it."

"I'd think that would be the task of Solembum." With a smile, Jarsha pointed to the werecat, who was curled around Angela's ankles with a dignified look on his face. Red eyes keenly assessing the situation, his fluffy tail twitched as he surveyed Nanette. Her hair was in disarray, her eyes were wide, and she looked panicked.

_The others seemed not to have noticed, _thought Solembum as she scampered to join her friends and sister. _I was right to think Eragon isn't the only occasionally dim-witted human._

_----------------------------------_

"Where's this elf person?" asked Tatiana. "Tell the truth!"

Angela sent a smile to the seven year-old. "I'm not going to lie to you," she replied, cocking her head to the side with the ghost of a smile. Turning around, she pointed in the direction of the heart of Aberon, where, among a thick clump of houses, was gathered a great crowd. The people chattered excitedly among themselves as a tall, silver-haired figure approached from the shadows.

Jarsha started to run with Angela and the little ones, but a shout stopped him.

"He– H-he spoke to me!" she uttered in a wavering tremor, her eyes wide and fearful. "It's Solembum – he spoke to me!"

_Ah, now this one has true intelligence, though it must be honed before proper use. Clever Shur'tugal. _Tail waving, the cat looked Nanette deep in the eyes before she chanced going on.

"I heard him! I swear!" said Nanette, backing to the point of almost walking onto the werecat's tail. Solembum, however, merely sidestepped and stared at her with deep scarlet eyes. Angela, who was frowning, gave a start.

"What? Well, it's unusual when he talks to anyone aside from me." Angela turned to stare at Solembum, who gazed diligently back. "I only know of three cases besides yours. Don't—"

But Nanette hadn't caught the warning. "He said…" She began shakily, then took a breath to regain herself. "He was telling me that it was time to show myself!"

_Of course, young one. My words were not intended for you. _Solembum's eyes held a gleam of mischief as he detoured around Angela and cleverly leapt onto her shoulder. The herbalist's eyes widened as she absently reached a hand to stroke the werecat, pupils reduced to cat-like slits.

-----------------------------------

"Fanficcer! She's not a werecat, y'know, kupo!" Magic shoved TCF away.

Oh, uh, what he said is right. As a matter of fact, I don't recall any comparison of Angela and a cat in either book – that's Ginny. Hm. I s'pose I'd getter back to the story…

------------------------------------

Nanette's eyes widened. "Then who were they intended for?" she asked, her throat dry.

The werecat watched her with impassive eyes, tail flickering back and forth as he jumped smoothly from Angela's shoulder and began to encircle her. Nanette tensed unconsciously as she felt the fur brush her ankles; it was a lot more jagged than it gave semblance, belying its silky-looking quality. _But, in spite of that, you've meddled into my affairs. While curiosity may not kill the werecat _– here he stopped to lick his oversized paws – _it can occasionally kill the human._

Nanette shivered, as did Jarsha beside her. Merrick, Alden and Tatiana merely stared, their mouths dropping open in astonishment. _My words were not intended for you, they were intended for the dragon – the time has come and gone for him to show himself._

Then, it happened…

A sunbeam-coloured dragon flew up into the sky and glided softly, to land on Nanette's shoulder.

------------------------------------------

She fainted. Clear and dead away she swooned. Solembum remained sitting patiently on the ground as Jarsha – fearlessly, it seemed – walked toward the dragon, his jaw set but the glow of excited curiosity still burning a shiny fire in his eyes. _I've never witnessed a spectacle as peculiar as this one. Why was the dragon keeping secrets?_

Stepping delicately, purposefully, haughtily over to the fainted Angela, Solembum licked her nose. When she began to stir slightly, the werecat leisurely raised his maned head; upon noticing the crowd of people – the elf resplendent among them – running toward them, he disappeared.

Nanette dropped down to her knee, grabbing her dragon by the tail and cradling him in the crook of her right arm as she aided Angela. The witch smiled, shaking her head slightly.

"I'll be fine," she chuckled with a nod that sent her curls bouncing. "A witch like me? I've got to survive, what with my skills and talent."

Nanette, seeing that there was nothing more she could do, shrugged and, still holding tightly onto the dragon, got to her feet to face the crowd of people who were now flocking around their original small group.

In one single movement, Tati fled with Alden and Merrick, leaving them to brave the throng alone. Jarsha aided Nanette to her feet, doing anything but hiding the fact that he really, _really _wanted to continue stroking the dragon's jagged scales.

"Do it," smiled Nanette in response. Jarsha grinned at her and resumed running a hand down the dragon's rounded scales as he assisted her to her feet.

"Where is Milda, anyway?" Nanette muttered as the clamour of people threatened to overpower them from five feet away. "We could use her at a time like this – she's a Rider, you know."

Wincing at the bite of sarcasm in her tone – legend of dead Riders, she was sarcastic for a ten year-old – Jarsha didn't answer immediately. When he did, his voice was laced with hesitancy; he could sense the blood rushing to his face, even though he couldn't actually feel it. "She's – Well, last time I checked she was studying with Nolen."

Nanette started to rely, but was interrupted by the dragon, curled up in the crook of her arm with Jarsha's sweat-covered hand still pressed hard against his scales, stopped her. Easily, fluidly, smoothly, he hopped from his perch and began to scurry quickly toward the crowd.

The throng stopped, breath bated, two feet away from the dragon. He cocked his head to the side, seeming to grin – provided that was possible, of course – mysteriously, then continued to survey them from the depths of his amber eyes. So strong, so piercing, so _powerful _was his gaze that they eventually came to fidget uncomfortably, muttering darkly to themselves as those deep bronze eyes seemed to bore into their very souls.

Eventually there was quiet; the dragon flew back to the group. The crowd, meanwhile, stared at them with legions of eyes – some cruel, some sympathetic, some angry, some wise, some impatient, some burning with passion, some glazed with fear, but all waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

Waiting for something to happen.

Nanette, at this point, quickly muttered something about panic and shoved the dragon into Jarsha's hands. He stared at her, with the tiny reptile squirming against his palms, then promptly remembered his mission and turned to the people gathered 'round.

"I tell now, to each and every one of you, that there is a new Rider in Alagaësia," he said, and opened his arms. The dragon flew out from between his outstretched hands and perched on Nanette's head as the black-haired girl emerged from the shadows. And, by the blood of the Shade Durza, was it a weird sight. But, nonetheless, Jarsha ploughed on:

"This is Crimson Flame the dragon, and his Rider Nanette Argetlam."

More staring. Nanette passed out.


	13. Speak of the Mind

"He's so pre'y!"

"Look at those shiny scales of his!"

"An' he's able t'breathe fire, too!"

"Actually, he's not." Nanette, who had woken up an hour past, fixed her gaze upon the throng of little ones crowding around Crimson Flame. The dragon was quite gentle with the children, allowing them stroke his scales despite their rough touch – they didn't know better, after all – in a mass of clustering bodies around him. Head cocked, he surveyed Nanette through slit amber eyes. Through some unknown connection connection Nanette felt his curiosity, questioning and bright, in her mind.

Nanette's skin darkened with pleasure. Running a hand through her thick mop of hair, she stared deeper into those large orbs of his. She wondered when they would be able to converse in words instead of feelings. "But, you know, some day you'll be as smart as I am, if not more. I don't know why Crimson Flame chose me, but it wasn't because I'm smart."

"No, that can't be right -- you're still the smartest person I know!" crowed a little girl around Alden's age.

"I… I don't know about that," said Nanette slowly, indecisive. She looked at Crimson Flame, feeling the odd intensity of his young gaze. _Can I talk to him in my mind? _she wondered. _I know now we have a mental connection, but will he understand me?_

"But I can!" came someone's lusty sing-song voice from the horizon, and Nanette turned to see none other than Milda coming up to her. Nanette was embarrassed; she hadn't realized that she'd been saying her words out loud.

But nobody noticed. The little ones were still clamouring around Crimson Flame when the sunbeam-coloured dragon shook them off. Milda came to a stop before Nanette, saluting cheerily. "A good day to you, my mate. Isn't it fun to sit in the sun on this date?"

Nanette looked up at her, not able to resist a smile. Crossing her legs, she adjusted herself more comfortably on the ground and watched as Milda dropped to her knees and stretched her right hand to the dragon, the gedwëy ignasia sparkling on her palm. Slowly, calmly, Crimson Flame came to a halt before her, nuzzling the shining silver ellipse on her skin.

"Well met, skulblaka" Milda chuckled as she pushed Crimson Flame away from her and toward Nanette. "For once, odd as it may seem, I'm skilled in the ancient language." With another peal of laughter, she blew her bangs out of her eyes. "Also, soon or later, Nanette, you're going to have to touch him. That's how you get this – a gedwëy ignasia."

Nanette smiled, unwilling to touch her dragon and suffer the burn that she knew would come along with the silver mark. "I— I don't know," she replied, unsure. Glancing up from her dragon, she blinked. "Milda, I have a question. Before, Crimson Flame was curious, and I felt just a little curious, too. Do we share a mental connection?"

"You do." Milda nodded, oddly solemn. "And, Nanette, if you must know, before long Flame – can I call him that? – will know how to speak to you in words instead of emotions. And for that," she gave one of her characteristic grins, "you need to know how to speak with your mind.

------------------------------------------------

"Everyone's capable of telepathy if they know how to do it."

"I don't understand what you mean." Nanette frowned as she looked at her friends and sister. The trio of little kids merely shrugged among themselves; Jarsha, on his hand, answered her.

"Listen, Nan, this is how it works," he began, bending down onto his knees. "Leastaways, providing that Milda is right., since her explanations are always too complicated" He sent a grin toward the Dragon Rider; playfully, she kicked him in the shoulder before reorganizing herself once more into a cross-legged position. "You need to stretch out your mind—"

"You have a mind, yes?" joked Milda, and Nanette burst out laughing. When Jarsha sent her a reproving look, she merely smiled serenely. "For, you understand, Nanette, one cannot live without a brain. And when their mind is gone from them, then die they shall – or, at any rate, cease to live. With this logic, I deem you in possession of a mind, and quite a good one at that."

"Fine, I understand, but – but how are you supposed to reach out with your mind?" asked Nanette.

"It's easy," replied Milda brightly, tossing her mass of hair with a shake of the head. "Just stretch out your thoughts as far as you can."

"Can I communicate with other animals, too? Maybe even humans?" Nanette quested, crossing her legs as she adjusted her position on the wooden-plank floor of her hut. Angela had long since gone, though – not so strangely, when you thought about it – Solembum was still there, outside the abode with Crimson Flame. Nanette had the unpleasant sensation that they were both listening in on their conversation; she bit her tongue to prevent herself from commenting on the matter.

"Not for a while, if my history lessons have taught me anything." Jarsha paused his narrative to smile. "For the most part, in the beginning Riders could only communicate with their dragons." He cocked his head, giving off the impression that he was listening to something outside. "Shadeslayer was an exception, though; he could do it with his horse early on during his quest."

"So, try it now," finished up Milda, surveying Nanette with those mire-gray eyes of hers. "Go on, try it with Crimson Flame. I don't know if it will work right now, but you can still try."

"I wanna try it, too!" Alden interrupted suddenly, darting over to Nanette and jumping onto her lap. "Come on, Nan! I wanna try thinking to people like talking!"

"Yeah!" Merrick began to hop around after Alden. "Yeah! Aye, Nanette, I wanna try too!"

"You can't," she replied gently, looking at them with dark eyes. Alden looked at her, sadness reflected in his own, then dropped down on the floor and promptly fell asleep. Tears coursed down his face as he promptly fell asleep. Nanette, feeling guilty, turned to Merrick. He, however, seemed to understand, though it was with a shuffle that he went to sit once more beside Tatiana. She looked at him, shrugged apologetically and placed one hand comfortingly on his shoulder.

"You can watch as she tries, you know," intervened Milda without hesitation; Merrick and Tatiana both seemed to cheer up considerably. Alden, still dozing, didn't take notice of either, just rolling slightly in his slumber.

"I guess I try now?" Nanette asked nervously. At a nod from Milda, she summoned up her mental power and thought as hard as she could._ CRIMSON FLAME! Can you hear me?_

Nobodyanswered, though she sensed confusion on the dragon's apart.

Solembum, from where he was standing outside with Crimson Flame, was the one who answered. _Aye, you've a lot to learn ahead of you, young Rider. And, _he began, jumping from the dragon's scaled backside with the greatest of ease, _it hurts my mind as well._

_Solembum? _Nanette inquired tentatively, lowering her mental voice a bit. _Is that you?_

_Who else? _The werecat began, with a dignified walk, to strut luxurious circles around Crimson Flame. _Do I resemble anyone else physically or mentally?_

_No… It's just that I thought you weren't supposed to com-- talk with me._

_That was then. This is now. _Solembum cocked his head before scurrying to hide behind Crimson Flame. When he emerged seconds later, he now sported the guise of a small, black-haired boy with pointed teeth; the young dragon observed this new form interestedly with an inquisitive snort. _Do I still sound like myself?_

_Yes… Why?_

His nose twitched, as if he were calmly wrinkling it in his normal werecat form. With a human boy, though, it looked considerably weirder. _No particular reason, _he sniffed haughtily.

His form blurred, and Solembum was suddenly standing before Crimson Flame, in feline form once more. Admittedly, though, it was unnecessary – no one, save the dragon, had witnessed this transformation. _It was the way of all Riders to communicate with werecats like myself. _

Nanette nodded sagely. Solembum was an estranged character, but he seemed funny to her all the same.


	14. Arrival of the Pointy Eared One

In the heart of Aberon, the capital of Surda, an amber-eyed elf was shaking hands with the new arrival.

"Welcome," said Mirofr in the ancient language as his companion took his proffered palm. "What brings you here? Though I must say," he added hastily, "I'm glad that we have once more met up with each other after all these years, Keltra svit-kona "

The silver-haired elf smiled as she withdrew her hand. "Mirofr-vor, I came because I have heard tales… Tales of new Riders who were surfacing – surfacing at last after Galbatorix's evil reign." Her smilesd broadened, then shefrowned suddenly. "What has happened to you since the century we last met, Mirofr? Have you been overly immersing yourself among humans? You talk and act not like one of your own species."

"I suppose one could say that," Mirofr replied slowly. He continued to stare at Keltra, a smile curving his lips. "And you? How have you been faring since you arrived in Ellesméra?"

"Quite well, actually," Keltra replied light-heartedly before pressing two fingers to her lips. "Oh, I'm quite sorry, Mirofr. In our happiness I overlooked the greeting. Atra esterní ono thelduin."

Mirofr repeated the gesture. "Mor'ranr lífa unin hjarta onr."

Keltra cocked her head to the side. "Un du evarínya ono varda."

Mirofr nodded, waiting patiently as a look of drifting contemplation suddenly engulfed Keltra's face. The elf appeared to be dazed, lost in a world of her own; as if in a trance, she glided forward, to where two men where chatting eagerly. "Excuse me," she began in the human language, and the men turned wide, excited eyes onto her, "can you tell us where gathers the noble new Riders, Nanette and Milda?"

The men looked quite excited to by talking with an elf. "They're over there, with the dragons," the man on the left filled them in, gesturing to the north, where a crowd of children and two dragons lurked at the elves' line of sight, far-reaching as it was. "But y'can't disturb them yet – they need t'converse among themselves. Y'see, they're goin' t'depart for training in Du Weldenvarden soon."

"Aye, interruptin' them wouldn' be a good idea." The other man's dark eyes observed the two elves with amazement excitement as they stared back up at him. "And, from what we've gathered, they'll soon leave with the other new Riders." A clouded, dreamy look came into his eyes. "Though you'd be better off leavin' them for the moment."

"I understand." With a sweeping bow, Keltra left the men with mouths open and eyes riveted on her figure as she cleverly danced back to Mirofr, who had been trailing her from a distance behind. "May peace live in your heart," she observed with a bow before quickly pivoting on her heel to the younger elf.

Mirofr started to walk away, but Keltra stayed where she was. She appeared to be interested by the eager chatter and observed them for a time, eyes angled thoughtfully, like a cat contemplating a small animal that could perhaps turn out to be its new meal.

"Humans interest me," Keltra said simply, cutting the words from Mirofr's mouth as if she had sensed him about to talk, which – being an elf – she undoubtedly had. "I've never seen a race as queer as theirs in Alagaësia, aside from the dwarves. They are each as different as they desire to be without magically altering themselves in any way – for the most part – as we elves do."

Mirofr nodded. "Aye, a queer race they are, albeit a good one." He smiled, and Keltra finally turned around to face him. "It was a clever decision of me to decide to teach them. I learned their ways and culture."

"As Rider Shadeslayer did when he was in Ellesméra," replied Keltra in dancing tones. "At least, so I discovered from the small glimpses into his life I could glimpse from my home in Tialdarí Hall, among the trees and all things growing, when I lived there." She laughed as clearly as a peal from a brand-new bell. "And to think I shall have to return once more, almost as quickly as I came. What a shame 'tis."

"You've no need to follow them if you wish otherwise," Mirofr replied, crossing his arms as he watched three younger children scampering around them; they seemed to have come from where the dragons congregated with their Riders and the other humans. "I know that, for a fact, I prefer life here in the rest of Alagaësia than in the shaded depths of Du Weldenvarden."

"I understand what you mean," Keltra tossed back with a wise nod. "'Tis like nothing I've ever seen, here in Surda or anywhere else aside from that great forest." She paused, eyes focused on the far horizon, where the sun's rays were falling gently – yet scorchingly – on the backs of a dozen teenagers, some Surdan and some of the Varden, judging by the colours of their skin, discussing beside a small bracken-coloured stream. "The humans, the dwarves who inhabit this great land are of different backgrounds, cultures, and have their own lore – as opposed to us elves – though they all live together, free once more from Galbatorix's reign. And it is considerably larger than Du Weldenvarden; I think I've had enough of forest wildlife for a while."

Mirofr placed an arm about her shoulder. "We're travellers, you and I."

After a pause, Keltra repeated the gesture. The simple word she then uttered brought them together better than any sentence could have as they merely stood there, watching the humans. "Aye."

-----------------------------------

"Who was Murtagh?" asked Nanette.

It was sometime later that day, and in favour of all the excitement, Jarsha had abandoned Romena's tale for the day. Instead, they were at Milda's house with the sleeping Alden and Merrick, waiting somewhat impatiently while her parents, Tamir and Edlyn, prepared the evening meal. Both were hungry after their long day and had now left Iganì and Crimson Flame to associate with each other. Previously, Milda and Jarsha had been discussing the topic of a suitable name for his tale when she suddenly changed subject to this one. "I've heard about him – and you mentioned him in your story, Jarsha, but I don't know what he did that was so important."

"You don't know who Murtagh is?" An incredulous, somewhat stupefied look on his face, Jarsha ran a hand through his hair. "You've no recollection of him after all these years of history lessons?"

"I know who he is. I just don't know very much about him," replied Nanette, a tad annoyed. "I mean, I know that he's a good Rider and his dragon is Thorn, but that's about it."

"There's a lot to Murtagh from what we know." Milda bit her lip pensively. "I mean, he wasn't always good, you know. First he was, then he wasn't, then he was again… And he's Shadeslayer's brother and Stronghammer's cousin, after all. But I'll let Jarsha explain it to you. He's better at it, if you ask me."

"Well," began Jarsha thoughtfully, "Murtagh was a Rider; he used to be Rider Eragon's best friend after Roran." He paused to thoughtfully contemplate the ceiling. "What happened after the Battle under Farthen Dûr, is that Galbatorix captured Murtagh. A dragon hatched for him, the red Thorn."

"Why'd he capture him?" Milda butted in. She didn't actually know the answer to that, and her enthusiasm made her seem for once younger than Jarsha. True, she acted younger than she really was, but she was quite mature for her age and, in spite of everything, usually seemed older than him – no thanks to the aura of mystery that surrounded her. This time, though, _he_ seemed the older one.

"Joining into the conversation, are we now, Mild?" Jarsha chuckled. "Well, he captured him because he wanted information. Y'know, of course, because wanted to know more about him – he was a new threat in Alagaësia, right after Shadeslayer and his dragon Brightscales. So, what happened then is that Thorn's egg hatched." Jarsha paused again, still thinking hard. "When Thorn was older, Galbatorix forced the two of them to swear allegiance to him. They did it in the ancient language, so they couldn't lie – they had to do it. Galbatorix also found out their true names and controlled them. So, after Shadeslayer came back from Ellesméra, Murtagh reappeared at the Battle of Burning Plains and Murtagh told him of his past. He killed the dwarf king, Hrtothgar, at that battle. Likewise, afterward Eragon set off with Saphira, Roran and his dragon to fight Galbatorix. After he died, they worked together to undo the oaths that the mad king had forced Murtagh and Thorn to say."

"Sounds confusing." Nanette touched her ear, surprised when she felt a slight point on its tip. "I know everyone has a true name… I wonder what ours are?"

"Apparently, if you know you're true name, the fact that someone can manipulate and control you with it is enough to make you go mad." Jarsha, his face decidedly more pale, traced a curling, curving shape on the woven reed carpet with his bare foot. "Or actually knowing it can make you go insane," he went on, shivering. "And even then, you couldn't really do much with your own; you'd have to know other people's for you to be able to control them."

"That sounds like something I wouldn't want to do," commented Nanette.

"Aye, but, for all its danger, I would…" Her voice trailing off, Milda countered Jarsha's looking down by looking up at the ceiling. "I'd need to go find an elf who would know it, and that'd be interesting to do in Ellesméra." She swung her head to stare them deep in the eyes, hair swirling like a black waterfall; Jarsha blushed and looked away, and the skin under her eyes reddened. "You could come, too."

"I- I'd only be going as a messenger boy." Jarsha continued to avert her gaze. "I wouldn't need to find out my true name, you know."

Nanette, sensing something personal coming on, intervened. "No, Milda, that's probably not such a good idea."

"Well, still, though!" Milda pressed with a gigantic grin, pushing them by the shoulders. Her gray eyes stared deep and hard at them; Jarsha fidgeted, trying to her glare her back down into remission. It didn't work, though. Milda just continued to stare at them, an excited, almost hungry look in her eyes. "Imagine! I mean, if true names are enough to make you go mad or else enough for someone to control you, they must be really exciting-sounding! And, my dear Jar and Nan, if the elves can tell you your true name – leastways, that's what I heard Mirofr say once – then it must be from the ancient language. Imagine!" Her speech over, she abruptly turned away from him and stared hard at the wall behind her, apparently lost in her thoughts.

"Aye, you've a point, Milda." Biting down hard on his tongue so that he wouldn't remark upon her use of the pseudonym, Jarsha cocked his head to the right and stared hard at the brown vest now turned away from them. "But, y'know, Milda," he went on, his voice becoming quicker and more panicked as he spoke, "it's really dangerous! We could go mad just _knowing _our true names! And if we found out…" – here he heaved a sigh and turned away from her, cupping one hand on his chin as he reached out one hand to touch her on the shoulder, feeling his cheeks reddening – "imagine what would happen if others found out as well."

When Milda turned back to him, the movement was slow, deliberate, precise. Her eyes flickered from his crossed legs to his dismal expression, not knowing what to say. Finally, in a slow, hesitant voice, she said, "I… I really want to do this, Jarsha." Then, to his shocked gaze, she lifted herself onto her heels and stalked out the door.

Jarsha wasn't sure, but from what he could see, Milda's face was dripping with hot, anguished tears.

Nanette stared after her disappearing figure and quickly exited the house. Best to leave the teenagers to themselves – love was a confusing thing, indeed.


	15. Elves Just Wanna Make Peace

"Milda! Milda!"

With this worried cry, Mirofr, who had been standing nearby with Keltra, darted forward, quick feet pattering on the sun-baked Surdan earth. Keltra, intercepted him by reaching out with one slim arm, restraining him in that simple grip. Placing one finger on her lips, she bounded into the distance after the young Rider.

"I don't want your help." Without turning around or ceasing her furious stride, Milda sniffed haughtily and quickened her walk instead. Her voice was sudden, unexpected, an angry snap tipped in ice. "Listen to me, whoever you are. I've no need of your help. I have things to think about, and I'm perfectly capable of pondering and contemplating by myself, thank you very much."

"Have it your way, then," replied Keltra smoothly, cocking her head to the side for what must have been the hundredth time in her life – or possibly more, for everything that anyone knew. "I've no need to listen to whining little children anyway." Her voice, equally frosty, bored through Milda's heart, but the angry Shur'tugal continued walking on, faster than ever. "They, unlike the elves, know not how to act." She sniffed again, sounding even more disdainful than Milda had. "And you, pitiful human, are a horrible example, even for your meager, short-lived race."

That hurt. Keltra could tell. Milda – that was her name, she could see, from what Mirofr had said – sniffed, this time sounding hurt rather than imperious. Slowly, ever so slowly, her knees buckled. She fell to the ground, clutching her chest and whimpering softly. Then, ever so slowly, menacingly, dangerously, she rose again, pivoting on her heel to face Keltra. Milda's clear eyes narrowed; Keltra shot an evil glare right back at her. Then, Milda spoke.

"No one," she began, hands balling into fists with a movement as cold as if she were crushing a block of ice, "insults humans." She lowered her head, a thick bang falling into place over her eyes, burning, glowering, piercing deeply into the elf's – as if into her very soul. The elf held her gaze, eyes tightening, but behind the furious exterior she was wondering what Milda was really like. "Got that?" Milda crossed her arms, her voice thundering out with her next sentence. "No one."

The last move, enough to make even an accomplished human warrior shiver, only caused Keltra to raise an eyebrow. Some warriors were quite unskilled in the ways of love, and – it seemed to her – even less those of young love. As it was, she kept her gaze level and uttered a single word. "Milda."

"Don't talk to me." In a tone that can be described as – oddly enough – 'pissed off', Milda turned on her heel and resumed striding away as fast as her legs could carry her.

But Keltra continued staring, blue eyes bright and silver hair like burnished silver as she went on breaching through Milda's emotional defenses. "Trust me, Milda. I can help," she said gently.

"Oh, really?" Milda whipped around and glared at Keltra. "Oh, really? As if anyone in Alagaësia – and I don't care what they are, be it elf, human, dwarf, extinct Ra'zac, destroyed Shade, or even that foul deceased king Galbatorix himself – can understand the pain I'm feeling."

"Of course I do." Keltra advanced, her tone adrift in kindness. "It's love," she said, her voice soft. "Most people end up going through it at one time or another."

"Prove it," snarled Milda, and a tear coursed from one large, shining eye.

----------------------------------------------

I looked at her. There she was, with her silver hair, blue eyes and gentle expression. I knew perfectly well that the first part – the first part where she had cruelly challenged the mental capacity of each and every single human who exists on Alagaësia – had been a ruse to get me to open up, and I didn't want to.

Actually, a part of me did – a part that was never dormant for as long as I can remember. This, as Jarsha and Mother had often strained on me, was my conscience. I could never remember my father stressing for me to learn how to use it for my own good as his wife – and especially Jarsha – had, but I knew perfectly well that he probably had, a memory that was now lost in the twisted abyss that was my mind.

And so, it was, this conscience part of me was egging me on, trying to let the elf – whoever she was – help me. I, however, ignored it to the best of my ability; instead, I fixed the elf with a haughty glare. This time I was rebelling as before, but also curious. "Prove it," I repeated, my eyes fixed on those soulful orbs of hers.

"Certainly." She cocked her head to the side for the second – though I knew that, with the blessed long life all elves shared, it was probably her umpteenth, and I don't want to attempt specifying –- time and forced onto me a deep stare of her own. "I, young Rider, once loved he who goes by the name of Mirofr."

"Mirofr?" I backed away, feeling her eyes on mine – dark, oppressive, dangerous. "Mirofr? You fell in love with Mirofr?"

"Actually, we fell in love with each other," she answered lightly. "As have you and, I'm sure, the person you ran away from."

"This… I can't take this anymore," I growled, once more turning around and proceeding to stomp away, into the distance. "How is this possible? Mirofr never told Jarsha he loved anyone." Spinning back to the elf, who was regarding me with soft blue eyes, I stammered as she began to utter what she considered the most important aspect of this whole affair. "You… You don't know who I was yelling at, do you?"

A pause of a few moments stretched into a minute as we two females stared at each other, me not daring to talk and her testing my patience. Finally, it happened; the elf, observing me through half-closed eyes, bowed slight so that a lock of silver hair was suspended from her forehead. Her eyes closed completely as she answered the question on the air, the question in my mind. "No, I know not. As for Mirofr – he and I were good friends and eventually came to love each other. But that time has long since passed; now we are but elves who have survived through good and ill together – a pair of old, wise friends."

I almost gasped, feeling genuinely sorry for the elf. Yet, for some reason or other, I didn't feel guilty – that reason was, predictably because, she was still angry with adolescence in general and my confused emotions were flooding in a torrent of strange emotions that had never hit me this hard before. (AKA: Milda wouldn't say, but these 'emotions' that she speaks of are teenage hormones. She and Jarsha were growing closer together, and it gave her a feeling that was now pestering her with the bite of a thousand hornets.) I looked to the ground, eyes downcast. "I… I'm sorry," I breathed finally, "I never knew."

The elf gripped my arm in the silence that followed. "You are the first person aside from us who does."


	16. Flustered Teenage Emotions

Iganì rumbled deep in her throat. _All shall be well in time, Milda._

_Aye, that's what you think. _Milda, who was flying aimlessly atop the violet dragon, scuffed one hand across the saddle. _But me… Life has completely changed for me, Iganì. I feel guilty too, on top of it._

_But you are still young, as am I. _Iganì rumbled comfortingly once more as her Rider ran a hand down hard scales brighter than the most valuable gem on Alagaësia. _Love is a matter where neither of us have much experience, though I do have one bit of advice for you._

"Eh? What's that?" Forgetting to think her statements and instead exclaiming them, Milda perked up, jerking herself into a more comfortable position as her tightened on one of Iganì's purple scales. Remembering herself, she went on mentally, _What's your advice?_

_Apologize. _Though Iganì's tone was gentle, there was a hint of smug sarcasm in it. _Apologize to Jarsha. You're an adolescent, and you're both feeling things that are strange to a greater extent than ever before, but you should still have the power to control your actions. Your conscience and responsibility should tell you that what you did was wrong._

_So, that's it? I go apologize? _Milda was dumbstruck; the obviousness of the situation hadn't occurred to her. _I apologize to Jarsha for how I acted with him?_

_Yes. Do this, Milda._ Iganìalighted onto the sun-baked earth, bending down onto her clawed feet so that Milda could disembark. _Now go, child. I have faith in you._

------------------------------

I felt hurt. And guilty. And some other things, like these new feelings that were awakening within my consciousness. They had been faint, very faint, before, yet now they were alive and kickin' me. In the gut. I felt more than just a little guilty, a fact that even I acknowledged was strange. It was Milda who had randomly begun to yell at me, but I was the one who felt guilty. Oh, sure, she felt guilty, too – I knew that, of course – but the estranged thing was that I hadn't done anything to make her explode like that. So, there I was, with those bizarre thoughts and new feelings rampant within me and not knowing what do.

So, in a burst of sudden inspiration, I lifted myself to my feet and exited the house, slamming the door with more force than necessary behind me. Gone was all the boyish excitement that had previously pervaded my thoughts and permeated my mind; in its place there lay guilt and confusion. And now, I knew, anger.

Quickening my pace so that my feet tapped on the ground like the patter of rain on a rooftop, I ran. I ran as fast as I could, as long as I could, as far as I could. Finally I collapsed, some five minutes later, on the Burning Plains. I didn't even know why it was so; I knew I shouldn't be staying there, what with all the noxious orange smoke flowing out of the holes in the ground, but something forced me to lie there, splayed out on the ground that was almost completely devoid of life and movement. In the west, there lay the scattered remains of some of the tents that had previously occupied this very sun-scorched tundra five years earlier, some time after Rider Eragon had begun his training in the elf city of Ellesméra. Yes, the plains were almost completely empty of life, save me, a few insects buzzing stridently above my head and a few scraggly weeds that peeped out from the cracked earth.

Muttering to myself, I rose and, my limbs seemingly on fire, began to scurry away from the burning area. Now, I wasn't thinking; I was just running, running, running to soothe my fears, running to calm myself down, running to put my tormented emotions in order, running because I had nothing else to do, running because nothing else occurred to me, running because it was the only thing I could concentrate on. Just running, ever running, staring ahead with blank eyes to the rhythmic pounding of my feet on the ground – running, ever running…

Eventually, I stopped, chest heaving. True, it had been going crazy with pain before, but I hadn't stopped. And now, when I did finally skid to a halt – it hurt. Red and black flashed before my eyes, and then all was blackness.

-------------------------------

"Eh, what's happening?" Nanette asked.

She was standing there, a panicked look on her face and a hand on Crimson Flame's back, upon which was perched Alden. Sitting patiently on the ground beside her feet, Tatiana and Merrick were watching the scene that was unraveling in front of them. Nanette stared, transfixed, as well.

For in front of them stood…

A group of random Surdans also stood staring at the side. "W00t! Cliffhanger!" one of them cried, pumping his hands into the air. Instantly, she forgot it, as did everyone else who surrounded her.

For in front of them stood Milda and Jarsha. The two were standing at a distance from each other; they were going to the same place at the same time. Jarsha spread his hands out, surprise and what looked like fear visible in his brown eyes, and Milda's fists were clenched into tight balls. Neither of them looked angry; the feelings that emanated in an aura filled to the brim with emotion was instead clogged with guilt, sadness, confusion, and awkwardness. It didn't take much to know all these; the Surdans who were now beginning to crowd around them could sense the emotions, from the tension that hung in the air to the looks on their faces, from the expressions in their eyes to the stiffness of their movements.

Finally, the tensions snapped like elastic stretched to its limits, with one simple word:

"Milda?"

And the next part was oh-so-predictable:

"Jarsha?"

The two began to stammer in rapid-fire in rapid-fire unison; from what the Surdans and the Varden members could tell, they were apologizing. And, granted, they felt more embarrassed than one would have expected them to; their scarlet faces were proof of that. It was hard to tell what they were saying as individuals until Jarsha cried out, "So now we make up, right?"

Milda nodded, tears sliding down her cheeks. And then, my friends, you know what happens next.


	17. Romance Asserts her Power Over Alagaësia

"It's disgusting!" squeaked Merrick.

Alden merely gagged, avoiding the romantic scene that was going on right in front of them.

"Disgustin'!" echoed Tatiana, looking away from Jarsha and Milda who were – dare I write it? – kissing.

"Repulsive! Revolting!" cried Nanette, also looking away. She knew perfectly well it wasn't, of course, but Jarsha was fourteen and Milda fifteen, which meant that it hopefully wouldn't happen to her for a long while. Young love was usually fine, though – provided there was no kissing in it, whether it was for the first time, the last, or anywhere in between. And in this case – do I even need to acknowledge it? – there obviously was.

So, as those not brave enough under the age of twelve gagged with the beastliness of it all – and, suffice to say, some of those who looked away and strained unhappily with the situation were well past that particular age. But, for the most part, since the group of Surdans and Varden gathered around were adults, they cheered excitedly. No one was exactly sure why – as far as they were concerned, they were happily celebrating (evidently, this wasn't a bad thing), and that was that.

--------------------------------------------

_Teenagers, _remarked Solembum.

_Teenagers, _agreed Iganì, whacking her tail on the ground. Biting down hard on her tongue with bright teeth, she fixed the two of them – who were still locked in their embrace – with a piercing gaze, making what sounded like a grunt of annoyance deep in her throat.

_You know, I just realized, _returned a thoughtful Solembum, _that you're not elated as one who is in the midst of her first kiss should be. You and Milda share feelings, do you not?_

Crimson Flame, who was curled up beside his fellow dragon with the werecat on her neck, interestedly watched the mental fight that ensued. He couldn't make out what they were saying – he was still too young to begin communicating by thought, and, likewise, too young to sense their emotions – but he could, on a mild degree, sense their feelings from their body language.

_Our mental link isn't strong enough yet for me to feel Milda's emotions. _Iganì grunted, flipping her tail to reveal its even scalier underside. She was clearly in a dark mood, but, nevertheless, the werecat could sense a slight happiness that was slowly rising in her.

_And I – like you – am not condemned to the idiocies that seem to flock to some of the younger humans like fleas on a particularly unkempt beast. _Solembum calmly surveyed the situation through sanguine eyes, nonchalantly lifting a clawed paw, which he then began to lick casually. (And yes, I am aware that there are three synonyms of the word 'collectedly' in that sentence.) _I know that your mental link has been developing for some while now. Tell me – after all, we all know it anyway._

Iganì merely snorted, turning her massive horned head to face Crimson Flame, who was still watching them with wide amber eyes. _And you, younger dragon, what think you? Perhaps you can talk, or at least sense emotions?_

_As if. _Solembum nimbly leapt from Iganì's thick neck, landing from the humped ridges to the yellow grass with an easy, flowing pounce. _He is young, and in this day dragons are not as, say, intelligent as they once for._ Quietly, he observed Crimson Flame, eyes bright._ As for your mental link once more – I can sense the happiness radiating from you even now, though you and your Rider would be better off learning to improve it. Be not happy when you wish not to be._

That was pure (coughoutofcharactercough) Solembum for you; always calm, always dignified, eternally sarcastic. Though, expectedly enough, the werecat was wiser than his unkempt looks would let on. This was how it had been, this was how it was, this was how it would be. After all, Angela the herbalist couldn't completely be on of the oddest people out there without a little help from a furry animal companion. The two of them made an estranged pair.

Oh, it must be mentioned – Solembum was right, of course. She found herself incredibly happy because of the feat Milda had accomplished and though this part was buried deep under a pile of her own wise, draconic sentiments, she could still feel it under there. She was simply happy as a result – though not as much as Milda herself was; Iganì was pessimistic for a dragon – and heeding of Solembum's caution.

Crimson Flame was still there, of course, looking from dragon to werecat with wide, shining eyes. He scrutinized she pondered and Solembum continued to stroke his claws with strokes from his tongue, feeling strange. It was strange, Crimson Flame sensed, the way the two of them – one lost in her thoughts, the other casually performing a trivial nothing – ignored him. He was curious, observing, wondering why they had barely taken note of him, then almost immediately felt indifferent. It was a trifle, he knew, and – when he thought about it – he had felt stranger a few days ago, upon hatching. What had Iganì and Solembum been discussing earlier? Now, he figured, was a time for serious contemplation.

Why? Somehow, the question, wordless and unheeded, echoed through his mind. How had this happened? No, that was unnecessary… He knew why. He knew many things, and though while now his major sentiment was mild curiosity, he remembered how he had felt earlier when he had been with Nanette and her friends. It had been strange; Crimson Flame grew puzzled at the very thought. Earlier on he had done as an older dragon, complete with sarcasm and intelligence. Now, he was like a hatchling emerged from the egg some short while ago -- which was what he was, really. Perhaps a little more, but definitely not less. Yet… Even now at this young age, he could sense the overjoyed and disgusted sensations that Nanette was experiencing with some careful examination. She was too young; she hadn't attempted to approach her dragon since he had hatched. Now, he was a mere hatchling, and there she was, a part of the group that was grouped around Jarsha and Milda.

Crimson Flame also didn't understand why the throng had been cheering so, either, but yet again a calm, understanding sensation filled him. It was, he knew, Nanette; as if he had put mental voice to his puzzlement, her viewpoint was answering him. He caught glimpses of the two strangely close together, with their lips pressed against each others'. Jarsha's normally dreaming brown eyes were large and open, while Milda's mire-gray orbs seemed to be rushing with adrenaline that caused her to enjoy life from its ups and downs to its core and meaning. So saw Crimson Flame as he gazed upon the two of them, and while some deep part of him felt satisfied, the rest of him felt curious.

Though it was only a mild curiosity which explained why, with a toss of his silver-spiked head, the dragon turned to face Iganì instead of the young lovers. The large purple-scaled beast's tail was softly thwacking against the ground as she wiggled her shoulders, evidently conversing with the werecat now perched up there. Crimson Flame caught sight of her toss her large head, a puff of smoke wafting from her nostrils as she, clearly distraught, communicated with Solembum. Of course, he couldn't hear what they were saying, though it was easy enough to know by their body language; they were mentally arguing and Solembum had a winning edge. After all, he was older than both dragons by far; while another dragon's wisdom may have been unmatched, Solembum was armed to the teeth with a balance of enough wisdom and sarcasm that was enough to fluster Iganì.

Crimson Flame crawled over, placed his head on Iganì's leg, and hummed comfortingly, though he knew not why. Solembum gave him an amused glance, then jumped from her shoulder with the greatest of ease.


	18. Decision on Dragons

Milda had vowed to modify one thing in her lifestyle, which thereby affected Iganì's as well; she, with Nanette, decided to spend more time with her dragon.

"Well, we weren't with each other enough," Milda said simply, when Jarsha asked her why late the following afternoon.

The young storyteller had been forced to recount what the younger children dubbed as two chapters in Romena's increasingly long tale – for 'missing a day', as the younger children referred to it. The story had now grown to epic proportions. In it, Romena, along with her friends and dragon, had helped to vanquish Palancar and restore peace to the Broddring Kingdom. He was running out of ideas. He thought the story was long enough, but Merrick evidently thought otherwise, as he and Alden continued to batter down his defenses and he had been forced to give in. Jarsha, after having run his mind through many options, had finally decided on tomorrow's chapter after an hour's contemplation; as a result, he was quite satisfied with himself. Though, in his words and even thoughts, he was careful to avoid what had occurred the day before; he and Milda were now the same as always – the only difference was that they were both lightly treading around the matter and she, as he, was itching to discuss it.

Not that this showed, of course. Milda could be a brilliant actor when she wanted to be; Jarsha was forced to think even as she spoke. "You know, for all I know there may be something wrong with our mental link. Mirofr even said that we should keep it flowing between us, and I know we haven't."

"How?" asked Jarsha, forced to think even with that simple word.

Milda blushed at this, though one would wonder if it was because of embarrassment or…something else. "Well… We haven't. Usually, I can contact Iganì from wherever I am, but I haven't. So, when one of us is, er, 'feeling strong emotions,' like that elf--"

"Keltra," Jarsha interrupted, feeling slightly more confident.

"—Keltra said, then I only feel a pinprick." She cut off abruptly and rubbed an elbow, as if the needle of emotions stung her there. "It's only a soft prick with strong feelings – strong feelings, mind you. If they were softer I wouldn't be able to sense them. That's how weak our connection is."

Jarsha cocked his head and looked inquisitively at her. He still felt strange, but – weird as some things were – good enough to converse with her without being forced to think with every sentence. "It could still get better, though," he encouraged, "you know. After all, just because you and Iganì haven't been conversing doesn't mean you can't."

All this time, Nanette, absent from the presences of Alden and Merrick for once, had been sitting patiently between them, eyes shifting from one to the other with their respective two cents. Now, playing with a lock of dark hair, she finally decided to voice her opinion and toss it in with Jarsha's. "Aye, I'd better remember that," she laughed, releasing her grip on the deep black bang. "I don't want that to happen to me and Crimson Flame."

Milda observed her junior with wise, intelligent gray eyes. "Aye, you'd better do that." She paused to grin, chagrined. "I'd better do it too. A lot."

The girls laughed, and after a few seconds Jarsha did too. "I'm glad I don't have a dragon," he quipped, still laughing, but not unkindly. "I don't want to offend you two or anything of the like, but, you know, I would have trouble learning how to take care of one."

All at once, Nanette and Milda began babbling:

"Oh, it's almost no trouble at all," supplied Milda with a wide grin. "You know, once the dragon is a few months old and able to communicate with you, you just need to talk with them every day and make sure that you get to fly on them once in a while. Oh, and have lots of fun with them of course, with training and with everyday life."

"Aye, it's great!" Nanette gushed excitedly. "You get to play, have fun, watch, and ride your dragon. And the Dragon Riders are really strong!" A pause. "Hey, wait! Did I just say that?"

_You did, child, _rumbled Iganì. The violet dragon appeared, poking her snout onto Milda's back. _You did, and now it's time for you two to pay the price. For while Milda talked of conversing more with me, she was forgetting one thing: she actually had to do it_, she went on, having projected her thoughts for all to hear.

The said Rider blushed, muttered something unintelligible and ran to her dragon, wrapping her arms around her scaled neck. And, while the two of them were caught in this happy, shamefaced meeting, Nanette strode over to Crimson Flame and offered a hand.

The dragon snorted and affectionately began to lick her palm. Nanette giggled, promptly remembered herself, and instead dignifiedly sat down beside him. There she stayed, hand straying from Crimson Flame's snout to the ridge of spikes on his head. He looked up at her with bright amber eyes.

"You're so different," murmured Nanette as she happily stroked the ridge with the palm of her left hand. "You're not like the other dragons. You're – er – vastly, vastly different. I want to talk to you more." She smiled and extended her hand so that she was now stroking the smooth scales above his eyes. "Speaking of talking, we should do it a lot more."

Crimson Flame curled his tail. At first it looked like an indifferent gesture, but Nanette saw happiness in that simple movement before running her hand from his forehead to his armored underside; even at this young age, his scales were still quite developed.

Nanette's smile expanded into a grin as she continued crooning to him. "Ain't that right, Flame? You know, I'm a Rider, you're the dragon – we should be the best of friends."

Crimson Flame, now showing his affection in a more definite and foolproof way, placed his head on her lap. Humming, Nanette smiled yet more.


	19. Alagaësia Today

It was sunup.

The birds were chirping, the grass was sparkling, the dawn was breaking, the dragons were standing quite a ways outside the window…

Jarsha bolted upright from his reverie. Sure enough, there were Iganì and Crimson Flame, looking somewhat smug and definitely pleased with themselves. He couldn't begin to figure out why – the only thing he could see was Angela, standing between them.

Jarsha smacked his head. The herbalist! How could he not have noticed her? She had disappeared eventually, but in the hubbub that had followed no one was sure where, though they knew she must have been in Surda on account of Solembum, who was now sitting calmly at her heels. The dragons' appearance right outside his window – _his, _mind you, and not Milda's – must have had something to do with it. She was an accomplished witch, and therefore attracted to magic. What Milda and Nanette had learned so far in the ancient language would have to evolve for quite a while before they reached the same level as Angela.

As Jarsha, now fully awake, jumped out of bed and prepared himself to vault out the window, he was stopped. Angela, drawing near with the dragons flanking her and the werecat still at her heels, had a secretive smile on her face.

Oh, so that explained it. Iganì and Crimson Flame looked smug because they were pleased (in a kind of nasty way) after recounting what had happened to Angela. The herbalist, who was anything but normal, gave him a feral grin, her eyes slanted and the tips of her lips reaching almost to her ears.

"So. I heard about what happened two days ago from the dragons here," Angela began, the crafty look still on her face as she reached downward and patted Crimson Flame's side. The young dragon looked up at her, his large amber eyes wide and taking everything in – apparently he wasn't aware of the fact that he was much too short to see Jarsha on the other side of the house. Hmph. So much for a dragon who, just a few days ago, had been flying without any of the problems you'd expect a hatchling to have. "And I like juicy things when I hear them," Angela went on, her grin widening.

"How were you able to hear them?" Jarsha queried curiously.

Iganì showed her teeth, evidently angry by his remark. _Because, _her voice appeared in his head, _we dragons are not idiots. We can freely communicate with those who we wish to, when we wish to. _She snorted, a puff of smoke rising from her nostrils. _Remember this, young human._

Jarsha grinned and turned back to Angela. "What do you think of it, Angela svit-kona?" he asked, masking his voice and using a honorific from the ancient language he'd learned that was used on women of great wisdom.

In response, Angela rolled her eyes, the grin disappearing from her face, and, since she couldn't poke him in the stomach with the barrier of the window between them, settled for a derisive, sarcastic glare. "You have a loose grip on the ancient language," she observed, shaking her head of enormous hair. "Svit-kona is used for ELF women, not humans." Her glower became piercing. "Not to mention, honorific from the ancient language shouldn't be bandied about as if they were a child's playthings. I like being a human while I can, and especially a witch at that."

Jarsha grinned and cocked his head to the side. That was pure Angela for you, all right. "Anyhow," he began, choosing his words carefully, "what thoughts have you on this whole matter?"

Angela raised an eyebrow, matching his everyday grin with her feral one, which quickly reappeared with his remark. "What thoughts have I?" She dignifiedly tossed her head, causing that mop of curly hair to bounce up and down once again. "What thoughts have I?" She surveyed him through regal eyes. "I think teenagers are too young and immature for love."

_That's adolescence, Angela, _Iganì cut in, projecting her thoughts to the minds of the herbalist, Jarsha, and for some reason Crimson Flame. _Human teenagers are quite queer in their own right; I guess being a short-lived race does that to you. I've never seen the strangeness of adolescents in a dwarf before._

"That's because you've never seen a dwarf." Raising one eyebrow as she ran a hand down Iganì's shining violet scales, Angela turned back to Jarsha. "Also, just so you know, I was eighteen when I had my first kiss."

"With who?" Jarsha asked interestedly. "Jeod?"

He'd heard of the merchant-turned-Varden-supporter and was quite interested to know more on his subject. After all, he and Angela had both lived in Teirm together; perhaps they had had a relationship at one point? But, nay, and the expression of shock on his face when Angela uttered the next six words was understandable:

"No," she said simply, "Jeod was with Helen then."

"So who was it, then?" Jarsha persisted.

"As if I had even the slightest desire to tell you." She gave him another one of those roguish, feral grins. "Nay, it wasn't Jeod. Back then, we were both young; he hadn't met his would-be wife yet. His name was Svart."

----------------------------

"Svart?" Jarsha observed Angela keenly, wondering what was going on in her mind. "Who was he?"

Angela smiled. "A man," she replied.

"And what happened between you?" A grin appeared and expanded on Jarsha's face. "Eighteen years old can still be considered adolescence, you know."

"Quiet, Jarsha, before I give you a swat that's more than playful." Angela's eyes slit, feral once more, though still mischievous. "No – for your information, we were just lovers. Lovers, foolish and young. On his part, that is. I – well, I considered myself quite intelligent at the time."

"Yes, but did he think the same?" Jarsha smirked, satisfied, deciding instantaneously to fight fire with fire. "Teenagers can be – ah – quite 'queer,' you know."

"And should I believe you why?" asked Angela teasingly, though there was a wistful look in her eye. "Because you say so?"

Jarsha wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Come on, Angela," he went on impatiently, "you know you want to tell me."

"Again, just because you tell me to doesn't mean I have to." Angela fixed him with a stern, commanding, look before quickly relenting. "All right, then. Svart considered me a bizarre yet decent person." She drew herself proudly to her full height. "I was happy at the time since I didn't have enchant him for anything. Not that I would have, of course, but I was pleased that we got along extremely well together and our relationship wasn't explosive, like some couples'." Cheerfully, she went on, the pleased note clear in her voice. "We split up eventually, but now we still drop in on each other from time to time."

Jarsha brooded on her words, finally resurfacing with a question on his tongue. "Angela, did you hear about those young Riders like Milda are going to come train here for a while?"

"Yes, I did." Angela nodded. "Slakk and Arget, Tosaën and Ferondal. They're coming later today."

"I wonder what they're like?" mused Jarsha.

Angela grinned. "Different," she said.


	20. We Come With Peace

"Hi!" said the kid excitedly.

He couldn't have been more than eleven, Jarsha decided. He seemed friendly and innocent, but the silver dragon who was curled up behind him seemed reclusive, less willing to associate. The kid from Teirm, however – his name was Slakk – didn't appear to notice; evidently, he'd habituated himself to Arget in the few months since his dragon's egg had hatched.

"Hiey" grinned Jarsha, shaking Slakk's hand. Beside him, Milda pulled her face into an odd, wise expression:

"No, Jar, when someone comes over to you and says 'hi!' to you, you have to be playful. A mere 'hi' won't suffice; you've got to answer him with as much cheer and – eh – bounciness as you can. Don't you know how to approach slightly younger kids?"

Slakk was indignant. "I'm right here, you know," he told Milda crossly, tapping her shoulder. "And, now that you mention it, I'll be fine with a simple 'hey', y'know."

"Smart kid!" exclaimed Milda, ruffling Slakk's hair. "Learn that not everything has to make sense in life, buddy."

On Jarsha's other side, Nanette blinked, shifting her gaze slowly from the two Shur'tugalar to where Iganì was stepping over with Crimson Flame to touch snouts with Arget. The three dragons appeared to be communicating quietly together – even Crimson Flame, she thought, from the way his wings were beating excitedly on his back. They, on their claw, seemed much more intelligent than Milda was being right now; Slakk just looked confused.

"Crimson Flame," she murmured, extending her mental probe to his subconscious. _Can you hear me? Or, more like, can you understand me?_

A warm sensation of happiness met her tendril of thought and she grinned, watching as he trotted over to her. Dropping to her knees, she began stroking him, watching and listening as the voices of the other three floated to her ears. Crimson Flame gave a strange, pained sound, but she didn't notice.

As soon as Milda had finished her extended ranting, Slakk pushed a thick brown curl behind his ear and removed something from a satchel that stretched from his left shoulder and hung just above his opposite hip. When he resurfaced, Jarsha blinked himself; clutched in his hand was a tiny, ruby-red sphere.

"What's that?" he asked interestedly.

Slakk winked. "You'll find out," he said, brought it to his mouth, and blew into it.

Nothing happened.

Jarsha blinked; nothing had changed when Slakk returned the whistle to his pouch. Instead, all he could tell was that the three dragons had gone completely still and inert.

_Well, that's a change. _Jarsha strained his eyes, intently observing the three beasts; nary an ear twitched as a blot on the horizon enlarged, gaining size as it sped toward them.

"What's tha—?" Nanette began to ask, but the arrival of two shadows on the ground cut her off. Speechless, she jumped about a foot backwards – _how'd she do that?_ thought Jarsha – her mouth dropping open and her entire body as straight and as still as a lifeless ramrod pole.

"Who's that?" Milda was panicking and had the power to mince words for once. "Slakk, what's happening?"

Slakk happily raised two fingers. He ran forward on quick feet, winking again before turning to glance before himself. For there, standing on the sun-drenched golden grass, stood a dragon.

This dragon was tall and brilliant, prowess radiating from its every movement. Its bright brown scales coiled smoothly, its cinnamon eyes impassively fixed upon the Riders, their dragons, and in whichever category Jarsha would have fit into. Before, it had been gliding with its gigantic fudge-coloured wings spread out in a fan; now, it curbed smoothly to a halt before them, revealing the teenager seated upon its back.

The teenager scrambled from his saddle, jumping acrobatically from his dragon's neck to her leg before hopping onto the ground. Now, standing beside the dragon, he gave it a faithful pat and strode forward. He was a tall, lean specimen, this eighteen year-old Argetlam; in fact, he gave Jarsha a strong resemblance to an athlete. As the mysterious Rider eagerly approached, shaking his mass of thin black hair tied into a ponytail, Slakk bounded forward.

"Hi, Tosaën!" he called brightly. "Having a good time?"

The teenager, Tosaën, nodded with a faint smile. He communicated mentally with his dragon; he turned slightly and went rigid for a few seconds. Shortly after he turned back, a grin affixed onto his face as he nonchalantly brushed away a lock of hair. "Aye," he answered slowly, coolly running his hand through the single curl, "Aye, I've been having a good time."

"A fine Rider you'd make!" came a jeering yet affable voice from somewhere behind the little group. Tosaën calmly turned his head, while the others likened more to pivoting on their heels. For there approached Mirofr, nose quivering and pointed ears twitching. Behind him followed Keltra, a steely glint in her eye and her mouth a hard, resolute line.

"You'd be one to carry the name of Argetlam!" Keltra called back as she and Mirofr finally came to stand, hands akimbo, before Tosaën and his dragon. "A fine spectacle of your strength and power you put out up there, what with the smooth playing with your hair and the exceptional acrobatics!"

"We'll yet you leave the aerial magic to the elves, eh, Tosaën?" Mirofr crossed his arms, a full figure standing before their group. "After all, we – unlike you – have natural talent."

"What would Ferondal think?" Keltra demanded, her eyes expressive steel. "What would your fair friend of a dragon think, Tosaën? How dare you mutilate the name of Shur'tugal as you do?"

Tosaën pushed his hair behind his neck, revealing ears with slightly pointed tips. His strong blue eyes surveyed them all without a word; instead, he cocked his head to the side and waited patiently.

Then, it came.

All of a sudden, a deep bass voice filled everyone's mind – it was a deep voice which hidden within lay radiance of the sun, intelligence of the magician, sense of the elf, bravery of the human, perseverance of the dwarf, hidden strength of the tiger, and deep wisdom of the dragon. The mental summons, when it had been put to thought and sent to everyone's mind, was distinctly female – female, female as in a tigress, a huntress, a cunning enchantress. And there was no mistaking where it came from.

_Actually, I quite like Tosaën's adolescent idiocies, _the voice said. _They amuse me._

-------------------------------------------

Milda was shocked. Speechless, too – definitely an odd sight to anyone who knew her. Not that she particularly minded; this situation was a perfect one in which to be astonished so much that the power of speech could leave one. Not that Milda didn't know this, and she had to admit, she was amazed with what she'd seen, heard and felt.

Yes, felt. What Milda – and the rest of them – felt was that here they were, standing and staring at one of the legends themselves. This dragon gave the impression of being older than Arget, Crimson Flame and Iganì together; from her cavernous size one would expect that she would have been at least a year old.

_My name is Ferondal. _The dragon paused to pass a long red tongue over her floe-white teeth. _Well met, peeps._

"'Peeps'?" quested Slakk, who was still in shock. Apparently he hadn't met Ferondal before that day.

"What are you saying?"

_I'm being who I am, _Ferondal replied cryptically, thumping her scaled tail against the golden plains. In a dignified, stately walk – seemed that many dragons walked like that – she strode toward Milda. The human girl stood quivering from one untidy cowlick to the soles of her booted feet yet still calm herself as Ferondal walked calmly past everyone, everyone gathered there as if ignoring them completely, everyone as if she had not a care in the world but to speak with the nervous fifteen year-old now standing, shivering, before her.

What Ferondal said next shocked everyone, Tosaën and the elves included.

_You're an odd one. _

Those simple four words. That was it, that was all. Those were the only four words Ferondal uttered entirely for Milda (even if everyone could hear them), but the young Shur'tugal wasn't shocked. Quite the opposite, in fact, though definitely not chatty for once – dang that über-annoying adolescence!

So, what did Milda say? you may ask.

The answer is simple. "You're an odd one, too,"she observed, reaching out a hand to pat Ferondal's snout. The immense brown dragon blinked, and it was as such that the two instant friends walked away.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Pikasqueaks was aghast, horrified. "Ferondal is such a Mary Sue," he observed, glaring at Fanficcer, whose quill was in its paw again as it pored over a pad in a corner of the room. "Don't try and tell me she's not."

"Is she really?" asked Clara, raising an eyebrow. "Look at it this way, Pikasqueaks – she's wise, and she's weird. One good thing, one neutral things."

"She's got no faults against her."

"So maybe she's not important."

"Um, kupo?" Magic appeared, nervous as he called to TCF. "Do you think she is?"

"She's not important, and her – uh – strangeness can annoy the elves at times." Without missing a beat in its writing, Fanficcer made a mental note to make that a plot point later in this fanfic's editing. "Any more questions?"

Pikasqueaks observed the demented quiller through a critical eye. "Yes," he replied, "you're insane."

TCF shrugged. "Meh." The word was dismissve, noncommittal. "Give me something I don't know."


	21. The Idiocies of a Modern Day Shur'tugal

"You were the first of Saphira and the unnamed green dragon's hatchlings?" Milda asked.

She had decided that conversing mentally with someone else's dragon – especially one like Ferondal – wasn't the best thing to do and had now settled for speaking with her out loud. "Because, you know, judging by your size, you seem pretty old.

Ferondal observed Milda; the girl had frozen completely in happiness, with only her ear was twitching. Ferondal watched interestedly, breaking her trance, as Milda's mouth stretched slightly open. The next thing the brown dragon knew was a strong purple streak flying toward them from behind Milda. This, Ferondal supposed, must have been Milda's dragon – the girl appeared to have summoned her.

Ferondal watched as the violet dragon alighted before Milda, rumbling from deep in her throat. Milda's eyes glowed yet more as she scurried forward to run one hand down those large scales. "Iganì's my dragon," Milda said, "Well, not really my own, I guess – because everyone knows that dragons are their own. You know what I mean." She grinned. "But, either way, come on, Ferondal, fly with us!"

Ferondal observed coolly as Iganì allowed her mistress to embark her tail and crawl over to her back, shaking slightly but otherwise deft with te movementt. Now, the four eyes – a pair of cinnamon, a pair of velvet – met each other's. Iganì saw in Ferondal's a deep sense of calm, wisdom, serenity, peace, dignity, a love of the world, though it – contradictorily, if such a thing were even possible – was coupled with weird widom galore. Ferondal saw in Iganì's eyes wisdom – more than herself possessed, she felt, though one could never be sure – coupled with a fiery temper. It was odd, the two of them recognized in unison, yet it seemed that the two came to know each other with that simple glance. It was strange, for sure – but, then again, what in all of Alagaësia wasn't?

Now the two were gliding together, soaring together, enjoying themselves together. The world below their scaled underbellies was a nothing, a mere trifle which the two of them were flying over with not a care in the world. Even Milda lay forgotten, perched atop Iganì's broad backside; for them, it was just the fun of being with a fellow dragon, the fun of having a friend. It was, for them, an inexplicable joy; it was a happiness that demanded nothing, simply giving itself away when asked. It was the sort of joy a dragon could get used to – yet, at the same time, eternally love it, never growing bored, just flying there with nothing but the sun and a chatty Rider chatting of everything and nothing on your back.

Yup, this was the life.

"So, you are the first of Saphira and the green dragon's hatchlings, right?" Milda, not having got an answer previously, asked.

_Aye. At least, that's what they told me._ Ferondal's voice was laced with indifference. _But what does it matter? Honestly, either way you look at it – we're all a mix of human and dragon, elf and dwarf, on the inside._

_I like this, too._ Iganì sounded serene, calm, relaxed_. It's one of the best experiences I've ever had in my short life._ Deep from within her radiated a deep sense of nonchalant, collected happiness – though, the way Milda perceived it, it was completely covered with a thick layer of joy. Pure joy that raised her spirits, pure joy that could survive through any obstacle that deterred their path, pure joy that crackled with life as a flame on its candle. Pure joy that could never be staunched when flying with a friend but not a worry in the world.

"Awesome." It was the only word Milda found suitable for the situation, filled with all the power and awe the three of them were feeling. "Awesome."

'_Tis simply awesome,_ the two dragons concorded in unison.

_Awesome,_ the three of them thought together.

----------------------------------

"You were having so much fun you couldn't even talk to each other." Tosaën raised an eyebrow.

"You know, you're pretty dense for an eighteen year-old." Slakk frowned, absently stroking one of Arget's silver scales. "Sometimes you don't need to say anything to make stuff awesome. Like, I'm a Dragon Rider because when adults in Fasaloft weren't hatching any dragons, they had to turn to us younger folk – but I didn't have to mention how awesome it is, did I?"

The group of youths were at the southern Surdan shoreline, talking of what had just occurred between Milda, Iganì and Ferondal. Tatiana, Alden and Merrick were there as well. Merrick was sitting straight, an excited gleam in his eye as he listened to their conversation, while Tatiana looked from one to the other in a mix of confusion and comprehension. Alden was, as usual, asleep, and, a short distance away, the four dragons were listening in as well. A little ways off sat Mirofr and Keltra; they still looked more than a tad annoyed of the way Tosaën acted. You could almost sense them thinking something along the lines of 'I can't wait for a few more centuries to pass for this Shur'tugal and his absent-minded dragon to get wiser!' – an odd thought for 'wise' elves such as themselves.

"He's got a point, you know." Jarsha, who was sitting by the waves, running a stick through the sand, agreed. "I mean, why? Why talk when you don't have to?"

Milda nodded. "Besides, buddy, it's over and done with. Nothing you can do to change the past. At any rate, we liked what was happening – it was supreme, it was great, it was awesome, it was awesome. Y'know what I'm saying, don't you?" She too raised an eyebrow. "Why elaborate about a trifle, an absolute nothing?"

Nanette stifled a giggle. That wasn't very smart for Milda to say – she always elaborated. "I agree, too," she said hesitantly, hugging the dozing Alden. The four year-old was snoozing peacefully on her lap, not reacting to her touch. "A person doesn't always have to talk, and Ferondal's your dragon. If you've done a lot with her, you should know that."

"What are you saying?" Tosaën retorted. "Your dragon doesn't even talk yet!"

"She still senses him, though," Milda added thoughtfully. Right on cue, Crimson Flame suddenly appeared behind her and headed toward her. "Dragons and their Riders are supposed to have a mental link together. Sometimes you don't even need to have a dragon that can talk for it to happen." She grinned. "I could elaborate—"

"Please don't," groaned Jarsha, and her grin grew wider.

"—but I won't – for once, mind you."

Merrick looked at her, surprised; he understood what she'd said, but he'd never thought about it that way. "Me, I just know that I should be happy right now," he called out joyfully as he danced like a demon toward Crimson Flame. The golden dragon looked up, amber eyes bright and inquisitive.

"Nah, I don't agree with you." Tosaën stretched comfortably onto the grass, his eyes closed. "'Smatter of fact, I think people wouldn't be able to live without speech."

"I think that your words are no guide to living life," replied Keltra dryly, crossing her arms. "Perhaps some – such as we elves – could live without speech, but that's no reason to be incredulous when your dragon is enjoying herself ! Truthfully, anyone can say what you do, yet none can say it as badly – though I daresay your absent-minded dragon comes close and, being one of the few remaining of an awe-inspiring race of creatures, that's saying something."

"Aye." Mirofr glared, steadfast, at Tosaën. What do you think you are? A boasting liar? An acrobat? One who can change the world with a mere glance yet never carry the name of Rider?" A pause in which his chest heaved with inhuman speed. "Because, Tosaën, that is what I think you are – from the way you act and talk, the way you portray yourself, your very demeanour – is that what you are, a dense, swaggering isiot? Have you no mind in that overinflated skull of yours?"

Tosaën didn't seem scared or even surprised. Rather, he barely seemed conscious of the elves' outburst. He merely relayed them a sarcastic, snide, snarking look, barely cracking open his eyelid. When he spoke, his voice was low, deep, dangerous. "Really?" he said softly. "That's what you think of me?" He glared pointedly. "If that's what you think of me, then I think you are useless elves who have done naught since the glorious days of Alagaësia but hide in your forests. Why, I daresay that you've never even met Eragon!"

"It's an outrage!" cried Keltra, ignoring him. Instead, she threw caution to the winds and, at a great risk of embarrassment (which came into existence before long, I can assure you), she angrily shook her finger at him. "Using the ancient language to fashion yourself a new name! 'Dance, in the ancient language?' How does that have anything to do with you?!"

Slowly, deliberately, Tosaën rose. Pushing a lock of hair behind his pointed ears – _Showoff,_ Ferondal couldn't help but think with surprising annoyance instead of usual good humor – he stood, plain and flat, on the grass. Then, it happened: he spun and swirled so fast that he wasn't more than a multicoloured blur. To them, it seemed as if he were dancing, as if he were a part of the very land itself, dancing to the ground underneath his feet in all its harmony.

Keltra looked as if she thought the whole situation were more than a preposterous outrage – for once she was speechless. Angrily, she arose and stalked off, followed by an equally angry (yet somehow amused) Mirofr. Tosaën, on his part, though, watched calmly as they disappeared into the distance.

"You made yourself a new name?" Jarsha asked, intrigued, once Tosaën's attention had snapped back to the others. "What was your old one? And, I have to say," he added as a tactful afterthought, "why are you such—such a fool?"

Even Crimson Flame, curled up beside Nanette, looked up at him with imploring eyes. Nanette, stroking her dragon's back, gave a sarcastic, mean-tempered look that seemed to say – estrangedly enough – 'End this madness so that Jarsha can continue his story.'

"Fine," agreed Tosaën with a shrug, though even these simple movements were nonchalant and smooth. "Fine, I'll tell you." He paused to clear his throat. "My old name was…"

Slakk gazed at him through honey-glazed swamp-green eyes. Milda deeply surveyed him, a veiled excitement hidden by the masqueraded calm. Tatiana and Merrick were standing side by side, having gone completely still and rigid; even Alden roused himself to watch as the older teenager prepared to reveal his secret. Jarsha was sitting next to Nanette, patting Crimson Flame along with her; even the dragon's face of intelligent, inquisitive repose was piercing. Arget, while continuing to say nothing, as he was apt to, nevertheless looked at him calmly, despite that something like annoyance burning in his eyes.

"…"

Now it became more glaring than intense, interested gazing.

"Brett," Tosë began finally, blowing his hair out of his eyes. "My name was Brett, short for Bretten."

All of a sudden, there were outraged exclamations.

Slakk: "Brett, fine. But Bretten? Tosaën…. I like that much better than Bretten."

Milda: Y'know, I could elaborate. Shade's blood'n'bloodied Urgal, I should elaborate. But I won't – not unless you think is elaborating. (titter) Anyway, your name was Bretten? Bretten? Seriously, what kind of a name was that ."

Crimson Flame: (confused look)

Nanette: Er… Um… I don't know what to say. I like Tosaën much better than Brett or Bretten, though, but that doesn't excuse your actions toward us and the elves.

Tatiana: Bretten? What are you talking about? First you don't care about how important it's sometimes t'not talk, an' then you tell us your old name was Bretten? Shade's blood, that's weird!"

Merrick: I just met you and Ferondal today, Tosaën… But I think I like Tosaën better than Brett. (gag) That's very weird! (Note: Being a five year-old, he had a limited vocabulary.)

Alden: Eh, this is weird… Bretten? Brett? I don't even know your name now, but I don't like those!

Jarsha: Bretten? (blinks) I wasn't expecting that… Then again, I suppose your parents didn't know you'd become a Rider… On the whole, it all makes sense, though – Brett's not so bad. You didn't have to change it, you know.

Milda (again): Wouldja look at tha'… Keltra'n'Mirofr've already lef'. Mebbe it's b'cause they didn' wan' t'hear your 'orrible real name! Ah, yes, tha' makes sense… I mean, in all reality, Tosaën sounds cooler, even though I didn' know y'could dance, b'fore… Hones'ly… Why did Ferondal choose you anyway? You're jus' so weird an' so – such a fool I don' even wanna talk of it. (Other note: As you can see, Milda was agitated. Hence the slang.)

----------------------------------

By the time all these surprised outbursts had finished unravelling themselves, Tosaën had his hands shoved deep into the belt of his nifty woollen green pants. When they were done, he looked up, his eyes glinting. When he spoke, all that emerged from his mouth were a mere two sentences, a mere six words in total.

"True… Why did Ferondal choose me?"


	22. This Witch, This Werecat

"Mirofr?"

The elf turned. There, sitting on the hard-packed floor, blowing on a spoonful of burning-hot gruel, Jarsha was sitting. For once, the two of them were alone, breakfasting before resuming their lessons. It was the following day; the previous afternoon, Surda's younger folk had preferred to associate with the new arrivals rather than listen to the next instalment of Romena's tale. (Jarsha was relieved, actually. He knew that he had way too many chapters as it was and would probably end up reusing a plot line at one point or another.)

"What is it, Jarsha?" Mirofr queried as Jarsha brought the porridge to his mouth. The wizened mentor, supping from a bowl of mushroom soup, was watching the young Rider intensely. "What do you want to ask me?"

"It's just…" The teenager's eyes darkened, clearly grappling with his inner demons, Mirofr sensed. "Why were you and Keltra so mad at the Tosaën yesterday? I mean," he went on more quickly, not knowing exactly how to react, "true, he's kind of well…you know…an idiot, but I don't think he was mistreating Ferondal. At least, she didn't seem to be angry or hurt or anything."

"That's what you think," Mirofr replied serenely, lifting his soupspoon to his mouth. For placing it in the wooden bowl, he continued as calmly as he could. "However – and I can tell you – the way he was treating Ferondal and the way he acted puts all Shur'tugalar, and not to mention the training he's endured, to shame."

"Er," stumbled Jarsha. He was confused; after a second's thought, he decided that persisting Mirofr was the way to go. "Go on, Mirofr. Tell my why. Why? What was he doing that was so bad? And what about Ferondal?"

"You're not very shy when you're searching for answers, are you?" Mirofr shot back sharply.

Jarsha hung his head, but Mirofr could see that he was still more curious than was good for him. "I still want to know. I mean, I know I shouldn't, but no one' stopped my curiosity yet. "

"All right. I'll tell you," Mirofr acquiesced finally, setting the bowl on the floor. Sighing, he leaned back and closed his eyes. "As you know, in the Riders' glory days – especially after Eragon and Saphira came to the forest of the elves, Du Weldenvarden – dragons were revered and honoured. They were beings of great courage, strength and wisdom. Habitually, those in the ranks of the brave and noble Shur'tugalar usually fit the title – intelligent, brave, peacemaking folk. Of course, that's excluding the late King Galbatorix and the Wyrdfell – the Foresworn, the thirteen Riders who ventured to the other side; among them was Morzan, the father of Riders Murtagh and Eragon and Galbatorix's closet ally. Likewise, for the most part, Riders were not so cocky with their dragons, the elves, or their elders. Tosaën has trained in Ellesméra – Keltra was there for a great part of it – and to see the elves' efforts wasted on one who could show potential was a great letdown." He sighed, lying his grizzled head on his palms. "It is sad… When he first met us, Keltra and I, he did not act as an Argetlam should – he did not greet us with the proper politeness terms required by all elves and Shur'tugalar. May the stars watch over him – but they only reason they should do that is because he's a Rider. 'Tis only this and nothing more."

"I don't think he's that bad," Jarsha observed. "Aye, he was cocky and the like, but that's just the way he is. He can learn, after all, and they say Eragon let his confidence get to his head as well."

"No." Mirofr shook his head. "No. Tosaën is more than a teenage desperado. He is more than a mere idiot. He has abused and mistreated his dragon. He is a disgrace to the elves."

And with that, he got up and strode away without looking back.

"I always thought he was different, was all," grumbled Jarsha.

-----------------------------------

Jarsha stuck some elves into Romena's tale. In one scene, describing a talk between an elf and a Rider, he found himself portraying the elf somewhat cruel and manipulative. He didn't know what to make of that, but, he supposed, it stemmed from his anger with if Mirofr.

Nonetheless, the children seemed satisfied – o or, at least, they cheered raucously when he finished recounting the umpteenth instalment. Feeling quite pleased with himself, the juvenile delinquent – pardon me, youthful storyteller – descended from his perch, a grin wrapping his features into a beaming picture of health and happiness.

"You were hard on the elves," remarked Nanette as she drifted over to him once the crowd had dispersed somewhat. "It wasn't very fair to them, was it?"

"I know…. But, y'know, Nan – remember the other day, when Keltra and Mirofr were angry with Tosaën?"

She nodded. "How could I forget?"

"Well, it wasn't very fair to him. I think a lot of the elves are like that, is all." He heaved a sigh. "It's just... Well, you know, Nanette; it's just my opinion. I'm not mad at them – it's the way they are."

Nanette cocked her head to the side. She surprised Jarsha by agreeing with him. "Aye, you're probably right…. After all," she finished with a smile, "why should the elves have all the glory? Galbatorix was supposed to be EVIL, and _he _was human. Tosaën isn't _that_ bad, after all."

"Oi! Pea-brains!" came a sudden shout.

The children looked up. There, predictably enough, Milda was coming, soaring toward them on Iganì, riding that this swagger of one with twice her arrogance. Beside them flew Slakk, perched atop Arget's durable leather saddle; Arget's mouth was open, as were Slakk's eyes.

"Hey," cheered Milda as the violet dragon alit on a hill not far from them. Arget landed a few seconds later, dropping down to clawed toes. "How are you? Us, we're great. We've just been flying Iganì – they're more than just awesome, especially when just four people – fine, two – dominate the skies."

"We're doing pretty well, too," Jarsha smiled. And

"Same here," said Slakk, hopping nimbly from Arget's foot. The silver dragon nodded and began humming, mentally projecting his thoughts to the others' minds. Slakk, apparently, was tired of being used as a mouthpiece – that was how the dragon had communicated with anyone aside from his Rider before their arrival in Surda.

'_Tis quite a pleasant experience, I'll have you know. And what of it? If what the elves say is true (though I, in all honesty, don't think it is), then Tosaën deserves what he has. After all, he is but a human; he can be taught the honor of being a Rider in the many years he has _

"Which is?" asked a keen Nanette. Behind them, the crowds of younger children were clamoring excitedly toward the two dragons, expressions of pure delight on their faces. Resplendent among them ran Merrick and Alden, running as fast as their short legs could carry them.She looked around furtively, then added, "And, speaking of which, why have I only met two elves in my life? I'm a Rider, after all; it seems like I should have more trained by now, right?"

"it's only been a few weeks, and, besides, we're going to set off for Du Weldenvarden soon," replied Milda. Instead, she was standing beside Iganì, tenderly murmuring sweet nothings to her as she lavished over her bonded dragon. "Then you'll meet some."

_Well, Kyba is an elf…. She too changed her name_,Iganì added, also deciding to project her thoughts. _Her original one used to be much longer and complicated, but she preferred to cut it down and strip it of most embellishments. At any rate, she's not supposed to be normal, if the rumors carry even a grain of truth._

Nanette looked around, a worried look in her eyes. Clapping one dark hand to her face, she muttered under her breath, "Where's Crimson Flame? I haven't seen him since earlier today."

"Over there." Jarsha gestured to the small dragon.

Nanette sighed in relief and quickly scurried over. Sure enough, Crimson Flame was sitting there, scales twinkling. Beside him, licking his paws quite calmly, was Solembum the werecat. Nanette jogged over to her dragon, who hummed happily at her touch.

"Good to know you're here," she breathed. Crimson Flame merely yawned, revealing pointed teeth, though she could detect a slight purr in it.

_Have you forgotten me? _Solembum's mental voice, when it came, was impassive as always. _ In which case, I daresay it took long enough for you to remember me._ _ After all, you have been blessed with my wonderful presence. _

"Yes, the we are getting quite bored of it now," came a familiar voice.

Emerging from the shadows was – duh! – Angela. The herbalist's face was wreathed in a grin as she approached them, her enormous hair bouncing in the breeze. "Indeed, though, it is true that I always enjoy your company."

Nanette sat quietly down beside Crimson Flame, one hand on his scaled back. Solembum yowled, walking majestically away from them. His form blurred as though seen through a muddy mirror, his features dissolving into another shape entirely. Angela wordlessly reached into her shoulder-pack and threw him a hand-woven bundle. Instants later, no one was standing before them other than a short, pointed-teethed, black-haired boy, albeit with some odd clothes.

"Like them?" Angela asked eagerly when Crimson Flame seemed somewhat confused and definitely annoyed. "I made them myself."

Solembum yowled again, and not without reason. He was wearing considerably horrendous clothes – 'horrendous' being but the word that rolled through his mind. In reality, though, they were simply awful – mere shreds of leather and other fabrics basted together with a line of stitches that had been sewed haphazardly and in overabundance. They also weren't very fashionable – a pair of too-short breaches and a loose shirt that flowed down past his waist.

_Angela! _Solembum bared his teeth. _What were you thinking, dressing me like this? And, if you plan on doing this anymore, perish the thought right now! _

She took a step back, looking hurt, then decisively rehopped the distance. Cracking her knuckles, she managed out a none-too-unreasonable "What?"

"Those clothes… Er, those clothes aren't very nice on Solembum," Nanette replied, cringing.

Solembum gave a strangely inhuman, discontented growl and lethally stalked forward, but the herbalist merely waved one balled fist before his face.

Her fingers, clenched tight together, were unrecognizable under five clawed metal segments that had been inserted into her knuckles. They were sharply spiked, like the scales on a dragon's back, and twice as pointed.

"What are those?" Nanette asked, ushering Crimson Flame backwards. The dragon quickly regained his calm and curious look, reposing his head on extended front legs. "What are those, milady?" Nanette went on, stroking his scales. "Where did you get them?"

"First of all – don't call me that." Angela chuckled as she patted Solembum's messy black locks with your free hand; the werecat, standing by her side, was still in human form. Nevertheless, he looked considerably annoyed, as if he needed much more than to solve a matter as simple as better clothes. "Just Angela will do." Amazingly enough, she seemed to have regained a cheerful enough semblance, though, admittedly, she was still cracking the knuckles of her fist. "Secondly, the dwarves have small spikes, 'fists of steel' – '**Ascudgamln**' – which they can have drilled into his knuckles. I decided to reinvert the idea; when I gave him my idea, they readily agreed and forged them for me. Basically, they're claws inserted into the knuckles of someone's hand and can be taken out at will." Looking down, she fondly stroked the pointed segments. "I call them my claws of pain."

Nanette blinked. Snapping her attention to Solembum, she asked, "What's bothering you?"

_Aside from these infernal clothes I'm being forced to wear? _Solembum was speaking fiercely, yet there was a knowing glint in his eye as he crossed his arms. _Oh, nothing really. As a matter of fact, I've survived much worse torture than this. _

"Don't say those things." Angela punched the boy on the shoulder; Solembum buckled under the pain. "It's not very nice to the kind mistress who made you those clothes, you know."

Nanette, wanting to be a peacemaker, wandered back to Crimson Flame. Running a hand down his scales without turning around to look them in the face is, she asked, blatantly ignoring the witch's previous comment, "Milady? Why can I hear Solembum's thoughts? Why does he let me communicate with him?"

"All Riders can." Frowning, Angela motioned to Solembum to follow as she strolled over to the young Rider. "I was surprised when Eragon was able to, but I think all Riders can."

_I can talk with anyone I want to. I just don't. _While he may not have always been as calm and dignified in human form than he was in his werecat's, Solembum sure was now. Smoothly and royally, he strolled over to Nanette. He contemplated her through keen eyes, playing with his hair as a cat would with a mouse with a clawlike hand. _True, I can sense different things with you than with Eragon – thought before action, for one._

Nanette beamed without turning round, though it was pretty obvious from the flesh creeping onto her neck.

_You know, though, I would do this with any Rider. Eragon was the first I met – Tosaën was the second._

Nanette avoided his eyes. The compliment had overwhelmed her, rendering her incapable to do more than nod.

_Yes, I can see that you are an intelligent Rider. _

Just then, something considerably odd happened. Crimson Flame, who had been watching them inquisitively, angled his head to look Solembum deep in the eyes. Long the two stood there, eyes locked – deep and red, wise and Sunbeam, curious and clever.

Crimson Flame's guy's was rather admiring, come to think of it.

_Why, thank you._ Solembum smiled casually. _Remember, Rider and dragonling, you two must maintain strong connections with each other. It helps you become better people, you see. _

"I– I don't know what to say," Nanette blurted out. "How much are we supposed to bond, and how?"

_Reluctant to understand, I see. _Solembum's figure blurred once more; he quickly morphed, leaving a pile of ugly abandoned clothes on the grass. With a stately gait, he began to walk away. _Ah well. Someday you'll understand._

Seconds passed. "Erm," said Nanette, "does he always do that?"

"What, leave the conversation a cliffhanger and then majestically walk off?" Angela laughed. "All the time."


End file.
